


The Crimsoned Fragments of Our Past

by planetofthewillow



Series: Scarlet Sunrises: Never Fight in Vain [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alien Planet, Alternate Universe - Future, Battle, Dark, Drama, FACE Family, FrUK, Gay, Horror, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Science Fiction, Series, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-10-21 00:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20684216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetofthewillow/pseuds/planetofthewillow
Summary: The world is near ending and only a handful of nations remain. Now, they are at the mercy of an "Earth Plague" with unclear origins. The only ones left: Alfred, Kiku, Arthur, Yao, and Ivan, are the last remaining fragments of hope for a shattered reality.At least, it seems that way. Were they always a symbol for their nations? When did everything go so wrong and why is the past so fuzzy? It seems the only way to find out is to keep fighting.





	1. Alfred F. Jones - Captain of the Marine Battalion

Earth - The Ballroom in London, Greatest British Isle

Alfred F. Jones - Captain of the Marine Battalion

The man stepped into the luncheon in full battle regalia. A massive pillar of sheer strength. A  pillar that stood in the door who, beneath the thick glass facial plate, was eyeing the dinner with envy. 

He stepped forwards, the battle large and heavy and yet soundless. Each step one expected a teeth-chattering thud - the weight of the thing was impressive - but instead there was nothing.It walked on spider like mechanical legs: sheer silence following each step, engineering of sheer dexterity. Something that frightened you when you thought about the implications of such a machine. There were many such ones, all cloaking marines, who roamed through space at this very moment. This was the only one on earth, walking around in earth’s last remaining metropolitan city. And the man inside was absolutely starving. 

The place was as a gala, meant to impress what few elite remained in the world. The high arching ballroom was decorated with fine gold and diamond chandeliers. Those who mattered were tucked away in fashionable clothes that were, quite literally, relics of the past. On the table sat food, real real food, that smelled absolutely divine. Although the man’s sense of smell was subdued to faint aromas, he could still smell the spiced soups, pulled pork drizzled in glittering smooth sauce, the yellow rice mixed with brightly colored vegetables. All of it so much better than the hard nourishment squares, an insult to real food. If it wasn’t for keeping appearances of a stoic, hulking behemoth the man would have reached out and snatched a plate before anyone could say a word. He cast one last longing look at the table before marching towards the centre room, where the other representatives of the handful of nations sat. He positioned himself at the edge, next to the representative of the Japanese People, who was currently in a fine, slim space jumper. He regarded the man coolly, offering neither smile nor pinnace. The man smiled through his visor at the other. 

“Hey, good to see you again, Kiku. Been a while.” 

“Yes, it has Mr. Jones.”

“Nah, come on, call me by my first name. Say it with me, Al-Fred…” 

Kiku narrowed his eyes at him. The suit arched over his biceps, thin but tuned, and had an otherworldly gleam to them whenever he shifted. It was fine engineering and seemingly very comfortable. Not that the suit wasn’t, Alfred corrected himself, trying to keep a sense of pride in his own thoughts. It was great inside the heaping mass of intricately designed metal, padded with massaging cushions so he didn’t develop blood clots in his legs. Kiku seemingly ignored him, crossing his legs and causing the fabric on his thighs to ripple between black, blue, purple, and gold. All at once and nothing at all. Invisible.

Next to Kiku were two more representatives. One was The Great British and Northern Alliance: a freckled and completely unamused man. He wore regal clothing, underneath decorated with shimmering weaponry. The Earth’s front was strongest there, as they were surrounding by water that could be used to their advantage. Next time him was the Chinese-Russian Front leader. Only one of them, Alfred noted. They seemed to switch off between events. One was a frigid glacier of a man constantly smiling politely but never really smiling. The other, who was here, had his long black hair loose down his shoulders and was dressed in fine silk. He looked the least assuming, without any outside armor that one could see. But, underneath… Alfred shuddered, recalling a fight that should not have happened that broke out many months ago. The gentle, effeminate face was only a mask for venom. If Alfred had to pick a fight between the twin representatives, he’d choose the bulky Russian guy. 

Ivan. 

Kiku, Arthur, Yao, and Ivan. 

Not that he didn’t know their names. Not that he could ever forget.

They used to be so many. 

“Thank you all for coming, please, ladies and gentlemen.” Arthur stood up, his armor rattling beneath velvet and cashmere. “Please, help yourself to refreshments. I’m afraid I will be rather long-winded today.”

A polite chuckle flickered through the crowd, hardly concealing the tension that lay taut as suspension cord just beneath. The polite company sat down. These people were owners of food suppliers, water suppliers, electricity powerhouses, and human management. On earth, anyway. Once upon a time a room like this would be brimming with people. Even radio hosts and journalists! But now, what had they been reduced to? Two men and a woman sitting in the corner typing away to translate the meeting into all the necessary languages (count them, English, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, Spanish… French? Was any of that left…?) Alfred swallowed hard. He was happy for the guard over his face. No one would see, especially the others. 

“First, I would like to take a moment of silence. Another of us has fallen.” Arthur cleared his throat, allowing for people to settle. Or perhaps for the bolus of emotion to roll down to his stomach, hidden, unfelt. “Our heroes in Eastern Europe, The Baltic-Hungarians, faced their final loss one month ago today. They fought valiantly, their efforts never in vain. Please,” He gestured with his head down. Silence fell like a wet blanket, muffling and cold. Arthur raised his head again. “Let’s not disappoint our fallen brethren.” 

Oh god, Alfred thought behind his visor. He knew it had happened. Where was he? Floating around near a moon, shooting at aliens? There was more to that, yes. But it didn’t feel like real war. Here, his friends had fallen. Elizaveta and Toris, the last standing members of the council. He knew they… Alfred swallowed hard, again. This was why Arthur spoke in public settings like this. He could go on and on for hours, his hands out in front of him, voice as calm as if he was lecturing on molecules and peptide bonds and not the nearing end of the world (their world, not the new one). 

“We plan to make another effort on the waterfront, my troops. We will need supplies if it can be spared. If not, we will make do, but all efforts will be deeply valued by my men and women.” Arthur continued. His armor clinked ever so soft as he turned to look at the head of companies.

Most of which were young men and women, lead into this position by the sudden passing of the original CEO or manager. Young and frightened with small, beating hearts. They stared at Arthur, hoping for hope. They nodded as he spoke, though, Alfred knew, many would hardly be able to provide. They managed best they could, but they lacked the experience of costs-and-benefits, of choosing when to give and when to keep. They had to keep the dwindling populations from dwindling further. They had to fight to make sure electricity ran as winter began to rear its shaggy, frostbitten head. Food for mouths, water for thirst. 

This was not a political gathering. No filibusters. Not like before where Alfred could argue climate change until his throat was parched. This was different. 

Arthur was still speaking: “most importantly, and I want you all to know, that each and every one of your efforts are incredibly important to each and every life we have here on earth.”

Not left here. Not still. There was no need for more heartbreak. 

“I now would like to open the floor for all discussion.” 

It would go on like this for some time. Arthur, or the other representatives, would answer as questions cropped up. It seemed there were less and less each monthly cycle. This time there were only a handful of requests and a couple of questions regarding the water front. Space front was doing fairly well, keeping Earth alive, but would water front cause further nuclear damage? How much longer would the seas last? The technology to convert salt water to fresh water was improving day by day, but never fast enough. It seemed, in fact, to grow backwards as the waters became more and more sullied. 

Eventually it drew to an end and the committee dispersed, most to talk amongst themselves. 

Alfred detached from his post on the wall, making a beeline for the food tables. Before he could reach there, he heard the jangle of Arthur’s attire and stopped short.

“Alfred.”

“Hey man, what’s up?” Alfred flipped open his visor, hoping his face was clean and neutral. He stood several heads over the already short Arthur, the disparity made worse by the metallic armor. He looked down at their leader. 

Arthur looked very tired. 

“Do you need anything?”

“Something to eat.”

“No, do you need anything on the front? Has Jupiter’s Orbit made contact yet?”

“No, still waiting. Takes too damn long to send radio signals, I tell you.” Alfred stepped back. “And no, we’re doing fine. It’s more of a standstill than anything. Since we can’t, you know…”

“Win?”

“No - well, yes, but not quite so hopeless. You know? We can still win, I believe it.” His voice faltered. Arthur only looked sad.

“I see. I was thinking of combining Kiku’s forces with yours. In fact, we may send him up with you on your next orbit. I was hoping joining forces, as I would joint Yao and Ivan, may better our chances. Standing so far apart, although good for nationality and pride and all that other rubbish, it is hurting our allocation of resources. Maybe, even, if we condensed the world to a pinpoint…” 

“Arthur, you can’t. Are you gonna build a plane to get everyone in Manhattan over to the heart of China? That’s unrealistic. Plus, this way, it feels more like a team effort. Not a last ditch effort.” 

“I fear that’s what we are approaching.”

“Look, Arthur, I… Wait, did you say send Kiku with me?”

“Yes.” Arthur’s wide eyebrows furrowed. “Is this a concern?”

“No, it’s fine, it’s just…?”

“Is there hostility I should be made aware of? Or any tension?” 

“No, no!” Alfred made a dismissive gesture with his hands, the meaty metallic upper extremities mimicking it clumsily. Precision and fighting, lacking in language. The Angels of Mercury Design 3.06 were not quite as delicate as the previous models. Those were delicate enough that you could practically feel the other metal skin as if it were yours. Part of the problem. “I was just clarifying.” 

“His deployment begins next week, unless you have objections. In which case, bring it up with him.” Arthur turned away. His gentleman’s attire, somewhat vintage, glittered with the minuscule beads that wrapped around and within it. Prickly as a cactus. 

Alfred turned, heaving the body around with some effort. Making decisions again! Arthur had done that ever since Alfred was a kid. Hey, Arthur, can I go play with Bobby? No, Bobby’s mom is addicted to cocaine so you can’t go. 

“Excuse me?” Kiku said, his eyes a wide, delicate ink black. He was holding a plate of warm, delicious food. Nourishing food… 

“Did I say that aloud?” Alfred stared right back at him. Kiku’s hair was cut as it always had been, framing his face and the gentle slope of his cheeks. The black making the pink of his lips ever more delicate. A brush stroke mixed with water, one dash across a white canvas. 

“I didn’t know Arthur was your…?”

“He’s like an older brother. Anyway, you’re coming to space with me? That’s pretty sick.”

“I see you’re anxious.”

“I said it’s sick, didn’t you hear me? I’m stoked. We’ll have fun. We can… uh, yeah.” Alfred smiled. 

“What do you not want me to see up there?”

Kiku really cut straight to it.

Alfred shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

Kiku held the plate out. “I could hear your stomach rumbling.”

“For me? Oh, jeez… Ok.” Alfred’s mouth watered. “I’ll get out of this thing. Come with me, we’ll eat in the back and I’ll talk to you about what you need to know.”

“Sounds fair to me.” 

Kiku followed Alfred as he went to the back room, behind where the representatives sat. The room was smaller, a parlor once meant for smoking cigars and playing pool. A total clash with the Victorian era, high golden ballroom just on the other side. The parlor was separated from the rest of the building, a once-theatre that played Tchaikovsky to Shakespeare to Lord of the Flies. The other representative’s had set varying backpacks and bags in here. They would all spend the night in the theatre in a makeshift “hotel” on the floor above. If it was a building, it can be recycled. There was no time to risk the poisoned air outside just to stroll to the nearest hotel when everything you needed was right here. The theatre also was the only place with a wide and flat enough roof to provide a landing pad. 

Alfred shifted in his suit, pressing the inside safety lock with his toes. The suit rumbled and clicked open, releasing Alfred from inside. A light mist exited the interior. IVs and spinal taps reset back to their neutral position, awaiting sterilization inside the suit’s inner machinery. Alfred rubbed his back. The spinal tap, incoming through his body-tight suit, always hurt when it popped out. Funny enough, he never felt it in the suit. Never during combat. It was always there, ready to alert his suit of danger to his nervous system, and ready to pump special drugs right to his brain. The body suit would stitch up the microscopic needle holes as Alfred plopped on a lounge chair to eat.

“Thanks for the food.” Alfred said, smiling.

Kiku was staring inside of the suit.

“Is it… does it feel powerful?” He crossed his arms. Kiku’s own clothing moved against itself like silk on silk. Alfred couldn’t stop staring at it… for multiple reasons. 

“Feels like a monster. Sometimes you don’t even think you’re in a thing. Or you’re you at all. If you go into fight mode, punching, kicking, launching acids or whatever, you feel like you’re in a movie or video game. Just… Well. Do you have to wear one when you join me?”

“I may bring my own.”

“Is it big? Like, Godzilla big?”

“It’s not a Mecha. Or an ‘Evangelion', Alfred.” But Kiku smiled. 

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

“Exciting. Did you design it? I remember you sketching something last meeting.”

Kiku frowned. “Were you looking over my shoulder?”

He turned away. Alfred ran his eyes down Kiku’s body, down each curve, landing on the calf and gliding back up —

No, that really would not due in the closed, tight, and painful corners of the space halls. Really would not do, Alfred told himself. He finished eating, licking sauce off the spoon that he scraped from the corners of the plate. 

“Did you eat anything?”

“I’m fine.” Kiku said, turning back to Alfred. “Alfred, what did you want to tell me?”

“It’s gonna be tight and horrible and uncomfortable. You’re gonna be ‘round a lot of big stinky marine men and women. We got used to it so we don’t shower.”

Kiku had walked closer as he spoke and leaned over, sniffing the air.

“You smell like pork and rice pilaf.” 

“Well you smell like.” Alfred sniffed. “Uh, I can’t smell beyond the food I just ate. But I bet you smell fine.” He finished weakly. Lame! He chastised himself inside his head, scowling away from Kiku.

Kiku watched him. “Is that all? I’m sure poor hygiene can be amended with some encouragement. Plus, that won’t scare me away.”

“Rats. Thought I could use your clean freakiness to my advantage. Guess not.” Alfred grinned back at Kiku. Kiku must have seen Alfred’s hesitation, or maybe his sadness.

“Alfred, I’ve been in war before.”

“Not like this. Not like up there. It’s nothing like here. Hell, I’d rather be fighting in the ocean. It’s different up there. It’s lonely. It’s—it’s awful.”

“That’s why I’m going.”

“Why?”

“Arthur’s right, Alfred. We’re our last fighting chance. Apres-Terra won’t help us. Jupiter Orbit really doesn’t care. It’s just us.” Apres-Terra was many, many lightyears from Earth and essentially unreachable unless one was patient enough to wait several years for a response. It had taken them a long time and a bit of hyperspace wriggling to get where they were going, and that was well before anything happened on earth. A bunch of space hippies is what they were. And Jupiter Orbit was their connection from Earth to Apres-Terra or its siblings floating across space, kind of like a ethernet cable, and it was a faulty one at that. And none of them faced the “Earth Plague”. None of them had that curse.

“Funny, you’d think those guys would have human compassion.” Alfred said, staring at his plate, streaked with a thin film of spices and sauces. He would lick the plate if Kiku wasn’t watching.

“They’re just as scared as we are. They’re worried they’ll be targeted next… by them.” 

Or you will be, Alfred thought but did not say. 

“Just before getting here, here I’ll tell you this to see if you’re really up for it.” 

“Alfred.” 

“Just, just listen, ok?”

“I will listen.” 

Kiku sat down next to Alfred on some purple cushions. The soft velvet pressed against the slim suit, rustling so slightly against the fabric. 

“Don’t you feel naked in that thing?” Alfred said, realizing Kiku noticed his eyeballing.

Kiku raised both eyebrows. “You’re stalling.”

“Ok, fine. So just before we got here, my battalion and I got into a skirmish. Those things can float in space and walk on it like it’s no big deal. Arlene was saying it had something to do with the density or whatever. Some crazy science talk. Anyway, there was a hole bunch of the fuckers right up against our hallway. We geared up fast as we could and stomped outside, linked to the top of the hall and to each other. I fired up the acid shot, aiming for one of the fucker’s faces. Shot straight through him, power, made a hole right through where his head was. But these things are adaptive. Faster in space than here. They knew we shoot for the head because it worked for so long. So I guess either it has a fake head - like how some butterflies have fake tiger eyes on their wings - and I fell for it like a dumb predator. Or it has a regular head but all its brains and important stuff is in its gut.”

“This is valuable information. Did you tell the research team?”

Alfred narrowed his eyes at Kiku. He was stalling again. He felt the dry sarcasm creep into Kiku’s polite tones. He continued, “Well, while I was thinking about all those things it got one of us. Marshall. It got him by the throat. Ate him. Opened up and ate him. That’s what we’re up against. Better creatures. Smarter than silly homo sapiens. Bipedal mammals with fancy guns and armor.” Alfred’s eyes went fuzzy, blank. Like an old television. Alfred felt his mind detach from his body, his reality. Drift like a ghost, stringy and gelatinous, seeping through his eyes.

“Alfred, you can stop, you know.” Kiku said, reaching out to touch Alfred’s shoulder.

Alfred winced a little, turning towards Kiku. Even Kiku’s hands were gloved in that fine fabric. Man, that stuff was sexy. Sexy good, too. He could feel its durability. A gun shot probably couldn’t piece the fabric. He smiled weakly at Kiku. 

“Are you ready for that kinda shit?”

Kiku returned the rueful, sad smile. “Alfred, I’ve seen bad things, too. I know. I’m sorry you saw that. We have to keep pushing forwards. Remember Matthew?”

Matthew. His brother. The Canadian Force. Armed and ready and dropping in anywhere they were needed. Matthew always front line. Shy guy who had braces into his twenties. Guy who had an obsession with bears, both stuffed and real. Oversized hoodies until the war demanded he wear the uniform, cut his hair short, stand straight. And he did all that. And what did he get for it?

“Yeah. I do.”

“Make it worthwhile, like Arthur said. We can’t let it all go in vain.”

“We die trying?”

“We die trying.” 

Alfred felt his face grow hot from Kiku’s sincere smile, so soft and sweet. So much beneath it Alfred still didn’t know. 

Well. No matter. There were things to do. Alien ass to kick! After a good night’s rest, of course.

The makeshift “hotel room” consisted of 4 beds on wheels carted in to a cozy, carpeted once-dressing room. It still smelled of perfume and the plastic scent of props. Arthur was unfurling his armor. A thin string with bead-like deflectors along its length. Arthur pulled it off in one fell move, dragging it into a curled ball like twine, and set it by his side. He stripped off the rest of his clothing and slid into the bed, curling up. His freckled shoulders exposed between his tank top sleeves. A chain around his neck glinting in the dulled fluorescent lights. 

Besides him, Yao was stretching. Raising both lithe arms above his head, muscles stretching and bulging whenever he wanted. He pulled his hair behind him into a bun, watching Kiku and Alfred come in. 

“Did you come to terms?” He asked suddenly, sharply.

Alfred, who was eagerly complaining about the state of food on the ships, turned to Yao, stick straight. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” Yao turned away, peering into a handheld mirror as he wiped something from his eyes. Costume make up, to make his eyes darker. To commend more respect. In the early days that was necessary. Now, it was out of habit. Once the dark eyeliner was wiped on to a small cloth, Yao’s eyes revealed to be puffy, tired, sad. Red around the rims like he had been weeping. But Alfred had never seen Yao weep. Not even when things went terribly, horribly wrong.

“Looks like the king’s asleep.” Alfred grinned. Yao only glanced at him, a faint smile. “Come on, you’d all laugh at that before.”

“Well, not all of us. Some of us would laugh.” Yao said back. Small wrinkles showed around his eyes. The only evidence that Yao was the oldest of them on an otherwise untouched, foolishly young face. 

Alfred plopped on his own bed, located next to an armoire. Everything had been cleared off it so he could put his own backpack down. As he set down his headpiece and pulled out its charging port, he spotted a note scratched into the corner of the tabletop. Some actress waiting for her hairdresser must have scribbled in “Tommy” out of boredom. Maybe love trance. Maybe mourning. 

Alfred peeled his suit off, glancing over to see if Kiku was doing the same. But Kiku had already slipped under the covers, holding a small book in front of his face. He had slipped on his black framed glasses and popped out his contacts - now in a container on his own bedside - all in just a moment. All while Alfred was considering the implications of “Tommy”. Alfred slid into his own bed, stretching every muscle until he felt his back pop. A flood of tingling relief slid into his muscles. Exercise in zero G didn’t really matter. He still was fatigued and any return to Earth made him feel the gravity, hard. Every muscle screamed out at all the extra work it sudden had to do. His bones groaned like old floorboards. How old was he, anyway? Alfred slipped off his own glasses and set them by his charging head piece. He could hear, from it, faint cackling. It was too far away to hear his crew members. Even though they were just at a station one earth radius above, waiting for him to be unleashed from the ennui of earth affairs. 

Alfred shut his eyes and curled up. After a few minutes the fluorescents went out with a dull buzz. He heard someone rustle and slide back into their bed. All exhausted. All drained of energy from keeping up appearances. 

Alfred shut his eyes and he dreamed. 

He dreamt while awake. Rather, he let his mind take him wherever it wanted him to. He always had better dreams back on Earth. Here, he dreamt of hot blacktops and the thud of a basketball. He could smell freshly cut grass. He could smell desert air and feel cool ice cream on his tongue. And people! People everywhere. People in the streets buying food and water and clothing, not worrying about rations. Not worrying that any second they wouldn’t have anymore for a long time. Maybe forever. 

He dreamt of Matthew and him trying to smoke weed behind a bush in their park and Francis, big bro Francis, catching them and yelling unintelligible French. Alfred and Matthew, who had only succeeded in coughing because of smoke and not actual drug had fled, laughing and terrified. They came home to a “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” Arthur sitting cross-legged on a cough. 

No armor.

No formal wear.

No big speeches.

Just a “say no to drugs” and a “you’re too young for that, anyway” and a “Devil’s lettuce, that’s the dumbest name I’ve ever heard for a drug”. 

Then Alfred dreamt of first meeting Kiku. In a book store. Alfred was walking around, trying to find a gift for Matthew’s birthday, when he saw Kiku. It was like meeting an old friend he swore he never met before.

But, wait, when was that?

How long ago was Alfred a twelve year old kid? 

The seventies? No, the nineties. 

No matter. It didn’t matter anymore. Wouldn’t ever again.

Alfred shut his eyes harder, and refused to dream anymore. All he could see was death. Death and argument. He slept fitfully, hands clutched at his chest. He tried and didn’t try all at once to dream and not to dream. Wanted nice dreams. Warm summers between school, eating junk food and playing video games until he had to sleep or he would very likely die. Not the very actual death he faced each day. 

Morning came. Here, in London, the skies never really became blue. They hadn’t in a long time. There really hadn’t been a sky or sunshine for many, many years. Now the sky, bathed in scarlet, showed the sun above it. Like a flashlight illuminating the bones of a hand, everything was obscured by crimson smog. The only indication a new day had started was the small warmth day brought. Night was scarlet and bright, like snowfall under moonlight. When it looked bright as day but wasn’t. 

Alfred stared up at the sky through his suit. Next to him, Kiku stood, helmet on. His eyes watched the sky as well. His body poised as if he was going to be abducted. Which, in a way, was somewhat true.

Yao and Arthur stood away from them. Yao wore only a small face shield. His hair fluttered in the slightly humid wind, spilled ink against the scarlet sky. Arthur stood by him, armored up and in a helmet not unlike Kiku’s. His green eyes pierced through, at Alfred. Alfred recalled his dreams, weakly. He wanted to ask Arthur why his timelines were so messed up. Was it an alien affect? He should have put it in his report to research stationed in China-Russia, but he hated writing those things. No matter how much information he stuffed into those letters, it was never enough. His hand cramped after each session. Next time, he would put his muddled mind in. Maybe it was psychiatric problem and he’d have to be pulled from the space front. That would be lucky, of course.

The air shifted as a hallway descended. Fusion reactors hummed loudly around them, careening the ship down to the landing pad their small group stood near. 

“Where is your suit?” Alfred asked Kiku.

“Already in the hall. It was shipped up yesterday.”

“Wow, you were really banking on me to say yes.” 

“You really didn’t have a choice, Alfred.” 

Alfred began to say something, but Arthur spoke over him. He exchanged a look with Kiku, wondering if he saw a dash of smugness on the shorter man’s face. 

“Remember, call at any point if things become too risky.” Arthur said, “Or if something unexpected occurs. We will advance our water fronts steadily here, hopefully pushing past the wave. We aren’t sure how sentient they are, but they seemed to have a knack for patterns. If we can obscure the path we take, we may be able to lead them astray, perhaps redirect them to the empty Mediterranean.” Another memory, sharp as a needle, poked through his words. The unsaid name lingered on their tongues. Everyone but Yao looked away.

“We will continue research and preservation efforts. No evidence of land-dwelling Non-Human Threats quite yet.”

“We aren’t calling them fuckers are we?” Alfred asked, disappointed. 

Yao frowned. “No evidence of land-dwelling fuckers quite yet.”

Alfred beamed. “Hell yeah.” 

“Makes it seem a bit more amusing, doesn’t it.” Arthur muttered.

“Lighten up.” Alfred said. But he didn’t mean it. Arthur didn’t respond. He only nodded at the ship as it slowly landed, extending its spider-like appendages to poise on the roof. A ladder unfurled from the bottom of it. Strong as steel and enough to hold up Alfred, he approached it. Kiku followed. They waved to Arthur and Yao, who watched them leave. Yao nodded. Arthur waved back. His armor glinting harshly against the sky, looking eerily like blood droplets. Alfred climbed up the ladder easily. He reached halfway, expecting to find Kiku still near the bottom. Instead, he found Kiku hard at his heels, looking up at him through the helmet. The blue tinge of the face piece against the red of the sky against the metal of the ship glittered like a diamond. Alfred turned back and hauled himself all the way up.

“Ahoy! I’m home and I brought a friend!” Alfred called into the ship, a piece of the space hall’s, hull. Only to be greeted by silence. Alfred frowned. “Hey, Kiku, stay back.”

Kiku was already behind him, sensing the tension.

“Not sure where everyone is.” 

“Are they here normally?”

“Normally. I mean, I don’t usually get a huge welcome party whenever I leave the meetings, but usually there’s someone, Arlene, to brief me. I am the captain.” 

Alfred unloaded his arm pieces, unfolding the vaguely hand-like metal mittens into dual bayonets, guns cocked at the ready under his metal forearms. He began to thump down the hallway. His many-jointed metal legs crawling like a spider’s, making no sound. Kiku walked just as soundlessly behind them.

“Hey, guys!” Alfred called out to the echoing stair case. Still, no reply. Alfred’s frown deepened. He continued up the hallway, towards the stair cases. Uneasy with the silence. The cave-like interior of the ship, staircase winding around the sides towards the main deck up top, did not provide a lot of hiding spaces. If anything was a miss, it was either in the generators on the sides (hard, since the only way to really be in there was during zero G or when the hall piece was sideways) or on the main deck.

Main deck it was.

Alfred began up the stairs, Kiku watching his back. He had no weapons on him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready. Alfred clambered up the last of the steps, only half a flight more until he reached the deck that let into the main hall. 

“Hello?” He heard.

His heart skipped a beat in relief. He heard Arlene’s nasally voice through the door, he knew it. “Hello!” Arlene called again. Alfred made it up the last of the steps.  
“Alfred?” Kiku asked.

“That’s Arlene. My co-pilot and engineer. Trust her with my life, that woman.” Alfred said excitedly. “You’ll meet Ted, too. You’ll like him, he’s an excellent man. And Marshall.” He sighed. “You really would have liked him. Not at first, he’s a hard ass. That’s just my main crew. The rest are up in the main hall and atrium. All of them, excellent men and women.” 

“Alfred!” Kiku said sharply.

Alfred stopped speaking, shooting Kiku an annoyed glance.

“Listen.” 

He did, begrudgingly, listen. 

“Ahoy!” Arlene. 

“Hello?” Was that Ted?

“Hello!” Marshall? Marshall’s voice? No, that can’t be.

“Oh fuck me.” Alfred hissed, kicking the main deck door in. 

He stepped to the side, expecting a rush of aliens to come surging out. But nothing happened. He realized he had shielded Kiku from the door, effectively trapping him between his metal body and the hull. “Sorry, man.” Kiku shushed him and slid from behind Alfred, approaching the door.  
“Ahoy!” Ted.

“Hello?” Arlene. 

“Hello!” Definitely Marshall. 

“Is that it?” Alfred hissed. His heart pounded. Any more adrenaline and the IVs would shoot him up, calm him down, clear his mind. “Did they figure out how to mimic voices?”

“Hello!” Ted.

“Ahoy!” Marshall. 

He turned towards Kiku, who was peering through the door. His brows furrowed. Alfred moved past him. “I’ll go first.” He said, side stepping, guns loaded, and entered the deck. The coffee table, screwed to the floor, was a mess. Spilled coffee all over a deck of cards. Food crumbs on the floor. Blood on the floor. Blood…

Alfred turned to see something on the wall. A growth. The growth on the wall cried out to him.

“Ahoy! Hello? Hello!” 

Then, softly, someone sobbing. In the background like a music track. The growth on the wall. Blood, visceral. The shape of the alien, their fungal like bodies and vaguely humanoid proportions, but now stuck to the wall like a squashed fly. Calling to him. Alfred pointed his gun at it. “You FUCK. What did you do to my crew?” He hollered.

“Alfred!” Kiku cried out, his voice a near shriek. Alfred whirled around in time to hear the lumbering steps of something coming out of the other side of the main deck, from the control room in the corner. The thud thud thud and a lumbering, massive, faceless body lunged towards him. The thuds felt before heard. The body brushing against the walls like an animal racing down a hall. Its softly furred appendages came swinging, coming right for Alfred. It was the biggest alien he had seen in his life, and it was coming right for him. Alfred had no time to scream. He pointed his gun at it, and pelted it with bullets. In its head, torso, and legs. 

An unnatural, inorganic screech sounded from the lumbering giant. It hurled its other weak, boneless appendage towards Alfred, which he deftly jumped over and on top of, stabbing into it with his bayonet. A loud crunch and crackle sounded from it. It began to ooze millions of tiny spores caught in a viscous fluid. The creature, its face a mass of holes, rounded on Alfred. Its weak coordination didn’t allow for it to make another swing. Instead, it lurched its body, causing the hull to rattle and shake harder than before, trying to disengage Alfred from it. More liquid poured out. Alfred jumped off, still dragging his bayonet down its arm length as he slid. Skidding, grating down the soft fur that drifted off like snowflakes. 

Alfred landed on the ground softly, his many metallic legs cushioning the fall. Alfred rounded again towards it, aiming for whatever body part he hadn’t shot through. Before he shot, he caught Kiku hopping from appendage to looping, rolling appendage, all flat on the ground like tree trunks, but quivering and twisting. Kiku reached the “head” of the beast. The faceless portion, and flung forwards a weapon Alfred had not seen. Kiku spiked the sword-like object down the face, down into the neck of the beast. His suit glimmered. Purple, orange, red. Kiku flung the weapon out from the neck, something pierced on its tip. He was balanced on the beast’s shoulder, staring at it. It growled, the sound wet and guttural. It shifted its body, slamming its back into the hull, catching Kiku with a yell. It shuddered violently. Kiku’s blade had flung from him during the fall. The sword, long as a claymore but the make of a katana, clattered by Alfred’s feet. He rushed forwards. “Kiku!” 

And he was grabbing the blade, seeing something on the tip. Some organ. An eye? No, a heart? Something unrecognizable to his earth eyes. He aimed his gun at it, it was still pulsing, and shot it until it tore to viscera confetti. All the while running towards Kiku. 

He moved beneath the beast, its short legs, despairingly disproportionate to the rest of its body, writhed. It smelled foul. Alfred, using his mechanized, adrenaline-pumped strength, hauled the body forwards, rolling it off Kiku. Kiku had slid behind it. A thin trail of blood crawled up the wall from him. Kiku, seeing Alfred, lounged forwards. 

Kiku moved too fast for Alfred to react. He felt the wham and shuddered back, in time to see the wobbling head of the beast roll down and crash where Alfred had stood not a second before. Alfred was shaking in his suit, watching the ovular body, its inside lined with gasping, massive follicles. It shuddered, and violently burst in a rush of air. Kiku slid behind Alfred, slipping on blood but not falling. The head became an open egg, its contents a mush of spore and fluid and blood.

But these things did not bleed. Alfred ran forwards, to examine in closer. 

He saw it.

He saw a suit much like his own, curled up in the “head” body part, as if it were a stomach. The suit, crushed and bleeding, was unmistakable. 

Alfred was yelling and didn’t realize it.

“Arlene!” He yelled again, his voice acting of his own volition. He felt Kiku on him, bringing him down, trying to pull Alfred back. 

It was the biggest creature he’d ever seen, on earth or on space, and they were always bigger in space. But never this big. Never so big it couldn’t stand tall in a massive space hull. The hull was not as big as the rest of the space hall, as it needed to reach earth, but it was of considerable size. The size of an opera hall. He’d never seen one with such strange limbs. He’d never seen one bleed.

He turned towards Kiku in a panic. 

“Where are you bleeding?” He screamed through the suit. Immediately he regretted it because Kiku’s expression of worry melted into one of fear.  
“I’m ok. I’m not bleeding.” Kiku said. 

“I saw the blood!” Alfred screamed again.

“Alfred,” Kiku’s voice was calm. Alfred didn’t want calm. He wanted yelling. He wanted a battlecry. He wanted anything but Kiku’s worried look pinned to his face. He wanted anything but his co-pilot curled up in their enemy’s head/stomach. “Alfred, she may not be dead.”

“Don’t you—!” Alfred stopped. 

“What?”

He turned, seeing Arlene stir and cry out. Broken, bloodied, maybe a bit digested - but alive. Still alive. She gasped for air. Kiku had rushed off to find a first aid kit, again faster than Alfred could notice. He dropped by Arlene. Stepping over the crunching, squishy head/stomach of the beast. The rest of its body was bloating behind him. Its grey/white yeti fur clumped by fluid and the rush of spores. 

Alfred approached Arlene and Kiku. Kiku had placed a breathing mask on Arlene, holding a bulb with his right hand and her head with his left. He pumped oxygen into her. He pumped her life back. All so fast. All while Alfred was screaming his head off in outrage. And here was Kiku, saving his friend when he should have been on the scene. He was supposed to be a captain. Alfred dropped to his knees, kneeling before Kiku. Kiku did not notice. He was continuously pumping, watching her chest rise and fall. 

Rise and fall. Each breath a heart wrenching second before the next. Alfred watching anxiously, watched Kiku pump the bulb, watch, pump the bulb. 

After what seemed like ages, Arlene gasped harder and seemed to wake up. She pinned her eyes on Alfred. “Al!” She cried out. Pain squeezed her and she blacked out again, head lolling limply against Kiku.

“Her spine may be broken. Please be careful. We need to move her somewhere safe. But we can’t get this hull back…” Kiku used his chin to press something on his helmet. A small dial tone sounded. He said something, first in Japanese then in English.

“Yes, help please. Top of the London Theatre.”

A pause. 

“Please hurry.”

Another pause. Kiku looked at Alfred, his eyes sad. 

“I think this counts as ‘too risky’.” 


	2. Francis Bonnefoy - Just an Ordinary Man

Earth - Before the Fall: Paris, France

Francis Bonnefoy - Just an Ordinary Man

Except, he was not.

At least, he didn’t think of himself like that. 

He thought of himself as a man who smoked only the finest cigarettes, wore only the newest suede, lounged in the best bars, and only - _only_ \- wore the top brand of clothing. He allowed his hair to be long and his beard to be rugged. He liked that. It made them swoon: men and women both. As far as he could tell, he was a walking Greek God descended from the heavens to bless all these mortals with killer good looks. Ambrosia for the eyes. 

Yet, he was an ordinary man in ordinary times. His office job paid enough for a small but cozy Parisian apartment. He took holidays down to Versailles and sometimes, even, up north to London. He enjoyed his holidays more than work and dreaded the inevitable Monday return to answering phone calls and managing accounts. But, after that, he’d go home and watch TV while whipping up a dinner. Sometimes fancy, sometimes homey. He never bought frozen food and never touched his microwave. It was a good life.

A perfectly ordinary life. 

Francis was exiting the grocer’s, one bag in hand, cigarette in the other on another regular day.He had a productive day in the office. He had made a sale (he sold brand names, marketing, ads) to some young pop artist who had “always dreamed” of owning her own line of perfume. The girl was excited. Or so said her agent. He doubted the pop star herself cared much beyond what to say at her next fan meet and greet. After that, he had a lovely tomato and mozzarella sandwich for lunch. He had chatted up his coworkers, making some blush and giggle. He made one girl, a small petite, downright turn beet red. A man, flushed with jealousy, approached Francis. Francis winked and blew him a kiss. An excellent move, if he did say so himself. Francis did not have many friends in his office. But he was respected and known. He did his work, earned his salary, and made it to Christmas brunches in a timely manner. 

He breathed out a long plume of lavender smoke, relaxed in the day’s weather. Temperate. Not too hot, not too cold. There may even be rain later. Soon, the trees would shed their now auburn and gold leaves. He turned the corner, walking down uneven once-cobbled steps towards his apartment. As he walked by one of the million alleyways between the street and his apartment complex, he thought he saw something scuttle by him. Thinking it was a cat, he turned and peered into the shadowed alley that sliced between two remodeled buildings. Beyond it was a gate to a different apartment complex. A man was keying in a code to enter, unfazed by the rustling behind him. Francis snuffed his cigarette and approached the alley.

“Here, kitty-kitty.” He cooed, looking around. If it was a cat, and he was sure he saw a blur of grey, he would give it a nibble of his fresh bread.

He saw nothing. He shrugged to himself, brushing some hair from his face as he stood back up. He wouldn’t get his pants dirty, he had paid a small fortune for the business attire of today. Deep purple tie, black pants and suit jacket. Buttoned shirt beneath, a soft ocean-foam blue. And he had cologne on. Somewhat minty, somewhat soft. One of his coworkers had commented on it today. He had winked back flirtatiously, but the coworker had already moved on. 

Thinking of this as he pulled away nearly distracted him from the sound he heard. A loud, wet crunch. A muffled cry. He rushed back to where he was looking, scanning for the man who was trying to enter his home.

Grape leaves that had twined over the rusted metal shivered as the gate creaked on its hinges. Something was on the floor by the gate. Francis pushed through the alley, approaching the rolling milk bottle and stepped-on bread thrown askew on the ground. He pushed from the other side of the alley, glancing both directions for the man. Only the groceries remained, by Francis’ feet.

“Hello? Excuse me?” He called, looking down the street. A small park was to his left. Behind him was more street that bent towards more apartments. The park, yellowed in the fall, had no one. Francis felt his heart thump in his chest. Something was horribly, terribly wrong. Yet, there was nothing he could see or hear. He picked up the groceries, setting the unbroken and undamaged goods in the bag and on the steps just beyond the gate. He tossed the crushed bread into the trash, sorry for the waste. He shut the gate behind him. Maybe the man really needed to go somewhere in a hurry? Maybe he tripped? Maybe he had nothing to do with the crunching sound from before. Just recalling it caused a shiver to race down Francis’ spinal column, landing in his knees and making them feel like water. Regardless, he decided it was best if he stuck his nose out of this mess and get going. 

He began to walk back towards the alley way, moving sideways so he didn’t touch his suit to the grimy walls. He held his small bag of groceries close to his chest. The warm bread made his shirt feel wet, moistened with steam. His feet crunched on glass from a shattered blood and he could hear the cars rumble by on the street not too far from there. He could hear dripping noises, probably from incoming rain or a leaky pipe. He really hoped it would rain after he got home. He did love to watch the water splatter down against his window, warm and steaming the glass. Hot cup of coffee in his hands and another penny paperback romance novel on his lap. 

Francis planned to do exactly that if it did in fact rain. 

He felt a plop on his shoulder and, despite annoyance that his jacket was probably damaged, felt hopeful for rain. He glanced up, another wet plop landing on his face. He expected the oxidized smell of rainwater. It smelled of iron instead. He focused his eyes above him. A face looked back down, mouth agape, and dripping blood straight down at him. Francis, unable even to scream, dropped his belongings and made his way further out the alley. His legs shook, threatening to betray his balance. He couldn’t remove his eyes. 

It was the man. The man hanging from the walls, face down. His eyes had rolled up, the sclera bloodied. The crunching sound continued, not from any glass beneath Francis’ feet, but from something above, something holding the man. 

Francis felt it before he saw it. He felt it like a sudden migraine washing over his body, clutching his head and throbbing down every muscle, every tissue, every cell. A bleariness encapsulate him as he saw a grey-white beast hang from a window, the ruined man hanging from its grasp. It had finger-like digits at the end of long, almost boneless appendages. It wrapped around the man, pushing it into what looked like a hole in its neck. Crunching. No eyes to look at Francis, but watching him nevertheless. Francis had never seen anything so… He felt violently sick and clutched his stomach, twisting against the wall. He didn’t care if he got urban sludge on his new coat. He just wanted out, but he couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t move. But he willed them anyway, pushed them, swung one leg out, contracted the quadriceps, pushed and pushed. 

Eventually he made it out of the alley and to his apartment gate. His hands shook violently, scraping against the lock harshly. He looked behind him, pulse now roaring in his ears. He pushed the gate open and slammed it behind him, racing up the stairs and falling halfway through. He caught himself with his hand, forcing an immediate pain to rocket from his wrist to his elbow. He looked behind him again. He saw a shadow move, saw a grey furred head poke out from the side, coming for him. Francis hastily got back to his trembling feet and rushed up the last couple steps, nursing his hurt wrist against his chest. The pain was muted, like the volume of beating music set almost to silence. He rushed the last couple steps to his apartment door and ran in. He hardly checked behind him as he went from the stairwell that ran from just inside the gates, through the front door, and up 7 flights. He didn’t want to. He didn’t know what he would do if he turned around and saw whatever it was looking up at him.

He made it.

He survived the impossible. He had his back to the door inside his apartment, sliding down it, still holding his wrist tight to his chest. Pain began to ooze from it. He thought he may have broken it, but did not have the energy to examine what had happened. Francis’ chest ached. He wanted to sob. Instead, he found himself on his feet once again, shoes kicked off and suit, ruined with dried blood, set against his welcome rug. He walked into his kitchen and picked up his landline phone. 

He dialed a number he didn’t know he knew. He felt the tone ring fuzzily, like he was calling a great distance. What had he punched it? The room was spinning as the adrenaline decreased and threaten to teeter over and drop him out of gravity. He leaned against the counter, breathing as deeply as his ragged inhalations allowed. He pressed the receiver to his ear, wondering who exactly he had called.

A click, sounding kind of blurry, and a “Hello?”

“Hello?” Francis responded back in English. Great, whoever it was answered. What was happening? Why did he see a monster of some sort and run upstairs and dial some random number? How far had he sunk from his ordinary life.

“Fr-Francis?” The voice on the other end stammered. It was a voice he knew, but from where? The memory drifted in his mind, hardly finding a place to sit. “It’s been a while. Is everything alright? I can practically hear your lungs rattle on the other end.” A British accent, too. Where did he know this person? 

“Ah, yes. I’m a bit hurt. I don’t know why I called you. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” 

Francis’ mind raced. He tried to keep the shaking from his voice. The fear, the confusion, the pain that rapidly blossomed from his wrists and now pulsed somewhere in his shoulder. 

“Damn.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You haven’t disturbed me you idiot. You called because something rather serious has happened, I’m sure. Well? Are you hurt?”

“No, sir, it’s nothing. Please, I apologize again.”

“It’ll take too long to explain everything, of course. Not to sound rather cliched, but I must know if something rather, ah, inhuman has happened to you?”

What had been worry accelerated to fear and now to roaring panic. Francis took several quick breaths and recounted what he had just seen. He remembered opening his mouth to speak, but the words he said immediately slid from his mind. Who the hell was on the other end? 

“I see. I’ll call a meeting. You aren’t the first to see something like that. Vargas, both of them, saw something too. Said it nearly ate their dinner. Yours seems a bit more aggressive…” A pause. The man on the other end pulled away and yelled something out. He returned to the receiver, shifting the static as he did so. “My apologies. I’m at work at the moment. Can you fly in by tomorrow?”

“Fly where?” Francis nearly whined. “I have no idea who you are! I called this number out of reflex. Or something. I’m not sure.”

“Drat and double drat.” Another pause. “Oh, make it a triple drat. Hopefully whatever this is can clear away easily… Where are you, Francis? Are you in Paris?”

“Yes?” 

“Do you work?”

“Of course I work.” 

“Where?”

“Why should I tell you?” Francis meshed sarcasm and suspicion. He hoped the mysterious other person picked up on the clue. 

A tutting noise responded to him. “I’ll pay for your tickets. I’ll email them to you. I want you in the conference center, tomorrow, noon sharp. The one in London. Not the dreadfully humid one in Florida.” 

“I still don’t understand.” Now, Francis was whining.

“It’ll all come back to you. Usually faster, but I suppose that’s to be expected of you. See you then.” 

The line died. Francis stared at it until his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, seeing an email pop up on his screen.

From: Arthur Kirkland

Re: Plane Tickets — Noon sharp!!! Don’t be late. 

Attached was a hotel reservation, an address to a building, and a British Airways ticket. One way, for 21:00 this evening. Francis was going. Whatever this was, it was certainly better than the grey hulk of death looming just outside his apartment. 

That evening, he left through the back entrance, opposite to the cursed alleyway. It was foolish to think the thing never left the alleyway, but it was also foolish to doubt that it had some sort of nest or habitat there. It seemed like another organic life form, however mutilated its anatomy was. Francis shifted his bag over his shoulder, waiting for the taxi he had called on to pull up next to the curb. His wrist still stung with pain, even after ibuprofen and ice. He didn’t doubt that he had broken it. At least, that was a mystery easily solved. One x-ray and he could be fixed up. But that’ll have to wait. He glanced down at his bruised and swollen joint. The skin had become pinker beneath his blond hair. He had showered, hand carefully placed outside of the glass doors on a plastic baggie filled with ice. He washed his hair best he could, one-handed. He considered shaving the scruff for this mystery meeting, but decided against it. It made him look good, after all. And maybe the other mystery, the man on the other end of the phone, was cute. Francis went to check the time but stopped short. He had taken off his watch (Prada!) and placed it in his bag. He saw the taxi driver pull up, its light on in the early evening. Purple settled in the rim of the sky, pooling into a deep dark blue at the very edged. Evening would melt into night would melt into dawn, would turn into this strange meeting. He called off work the night before, reporting his broken wrist. He was met with sympathy and told to return next Monday. 

Francis climbed into the taxi, settling against the scarred leather seats. The driver wordlessly took him to the airport to meet his destiny, for lack of a better word. 

Noon. Sharp. 

Francis felt better after sleeping a couple hours in the hotel that had been reserved for him, a small inn that smelled faintly of potpourri and cabbages. He even entered the building with some confidence. He had on his second best suit. His best suit ruined, still blood stained, sat in his Paris apartment in an unseemly pile. 

He walked up to a receptionist, smiling grandly at her. He had been told his wide set mouth was sexy. He hoped to charm the woman. She glanced up at him. The faces in her face drawn, her hair a poorly dyed red, and her expression grim. She sighed. “Second floor, room called ‘Othello’. Can’t miss it.” 

“Thank you, madame.” Francis said, turning away hastily. 

Now he stood in front of the room, unsure whether to go in. It was 12:02 PM. He ought to just strut in and act like he belonged. Instead, he wavered by the door. 

“You are late. What part of noon SHARP did you not quite get, you frog?” 

Francis turned towards the voice. It matched the one over the phone. He scrabbled in his mind for a name. “Ah, Mr. Kirkland?” He said, smiling broadly. “How are you?” He held out his left hand, still favoring his probably broken right one. 

Arthur rolled his clear green eyes at him. The man was kind of cute, Francis noted. He was shorter than him, but not by much. Mousy blond hair fell in bangs across his brow. A constellation of freckles lined his cheeks and down his rounded, soft chin. He wore a green tweed suit. Not Francis’ first pick, but it looked nice on the man. Arthur. 

“Firstly, it’s Dr. Kirkland. Secondly, we’ve known each other long enough. You can call me Arthur. Not Artie, mind.” Arthur looked down at Francis’ hand. “What happened?” He sounded alarmed and reached for the right, damaged one. Francis’ hand had returned to swelling, being almost a centimeter larger in girth than his other hand. It hurt when Arthur lifted it. 

“I fell down the stairs. Running.”

“I see. Well, it’s definitely broken. Does it hurt— yes, yes it does.” Arthur had pressed exactly where it hurt the most, causing Francis to convulsively flinch. 

“It’s a bit tender, yes.”

“I’ll wrap you up here.” Arthur turned away and picked up a large, black medicine bag. He set it on one of the chairs besides the meeting room and pulled out two rolls of… something. Francis was medically illiterate, as far as treatment went. He knew enough from watching Emergency Room television dramas to guess. Arthur had Francis sit as he gently, deftly, wrapped his hand in a splint. “I don’t have casting material, but this will do for the time being. Now, Francis, you may have a flood of memory walking in those doors. I waited out here for you, of course. Not that you were ever really late or anything…” Arthur chuckled, “But I expected you’d have difficulty. This wasn’t our common place, regardless. So, as I was saying, when you walk in there will be many very familiar faces.” Arthur had wrapped Francis’ hand, up to his forearm, in a cotton-like wrap. Arthur pulled out another roll of material, this one a stretchy, beige wrap. He wrapped Francis a bit more tightly with this one. “Now, you’re swollen so I can’t go tight as I’d like, but we have no time to wait for the swelling to go down in time to do this and to attend the meeting at something resembling a reasonable time. Moreover, you have a broken ulna. That may heal on its own, but you may also have a fractured scaphoid, and that is one tricky bastard. That one, likely will need orthopedic surgery. I can’t do that here, obviously. There, all done.” Arthur stood back up. Francis examined his splint, his eyebrows rising ever higher until the skin of his forehead began to tense. 

“Thank you.”

“You are polite now.”

“Was I not… before?”

“If I don’t tell you, will you remain this soft spoken? Why, I do believe you haven’t flirted with anyone yet. The woman down there isn’t much to look at… But still. Perhaps you’ve gone puritan on us?”

Francis sensed the tease. He tried to make his mouth into a sexy grin he practiced in front of the mirror, his face relaxed, maybe his eyes even twinkled. “I don’t need to flirt with you, _mon chou_. I have already charmed you.”

“Too much for hope.” Arthur scowled. “Now, let’s go in.” 

The door opened to intense argument. A man Francis dimly recognized stood at the front, holding a dry erase marker in front of a white board. On it, he had drawn a very poor depiction of planet earth. On top of it, he had a UFO.

“Guys, listen. Hey Francis my dude!” He waved at Francis who waved back. The man turned back, grinning wildly. His business suit fluttered around his body, fitting well but also loosely, all at once if that was possible. He had a tie with… were those corgis? Corgi butts? Francis couldn’t see clearly, but he was almost certain the tie had a pattern of corgis from all angles. “Listen, so if we finally do get invaded by aliens - mean ones - then I have a plan. We get a laser beam—!” 

“Alfred,” A voice sounded from the table. A Japanese man in a white suit had interrupted the eager American. “You can’t do that.”

“Some sense at last,” Arthur sighed in Francis’ ear. They had sat down on one side of the table. To his right was Arthur, and to his left was a buff, blond, and grim looking man. Next to him was an incessantly babbling russet-haired man in an exquisite Italian brand. Francis also felt like he knew them. “Oh, quadruple drat. Is that what I’m on?” Arthur muttered again. Francis turned his attention back up front. 

“You can’t just fire a laser beam, that will never work. Too much energy, too many resources.” The Japanese man had snagged the marker from the American - Alfred - and began to draw a satellite by the UFO. “You have to get closer.”

“OK! That’s enough.” Arthur stood up, his voice loud. Not yelling, but loud enough to carry and bring a semblance of quiet. “Thank you all for coming.” 

Everyone muttered something back. Alfred and the cute-faced Japanese man exchanged a competitive glance before sitting down. 

“Firstly, I see that many of you are quite comfortable. It’s been some time since we met last.”

Agreement in murmurs.

“Secondly, it seems there’s something going on in the world, and maybe we should chin up and help out.” But Arthur was smiling. 

Arthur would be going back for on-call trauma care that evening. He wasn’t concerned for this meeting. His mind was on the paperwork he had left to do, an ever rising pile on his desk. He had work. Real work. The last important meeting had not been for over 70 years, and they had disbanded after that. This was a light matter. Maybe some sort of actual “magic” had escaped into the world. Maybe something a bit more serious, but nothing a couple of people with unknowing amounts of power couldn’t erase.

That was the first mistake, the first of many. 

The meeting discussed the threat. Some people began to talk in distinct terms. A woman named Elizaveta who spoke in an Eastern European accent suggested brute force. A quick and easy attack, and done. It would be carried out by her and other members who could fight one-on-one. Soft chuckling responded. Elizaveta remained stern-faced as she looked around. The man next to Francis raised his hand. She smiled at him.

“Thank you Ludwig. Feli, my dear?”

The smaller man in the fine Italian suit frowned. “Ah, no.” 

The woman shrugged. One of the smaller men with ink-black hair and beautiful eyes volunteered next. Then a bulky, very obviously Russian offered himself up the next moment. Once that had been settled, the conversation began to disintegrate. Others, like Francis, stared around in confusion. After the meeting had been disbanded, Francis walked up to one such person. A woman with curled blonde hair in a floral print dress. She frowned as Francis approached her.

“Hello, you seem as lost as I am.” He said. She smiled.

“Emma.” She stuck out her hand but paused when she saw the splint. “Oh, poor thing.” 

“So, do you know why everyone knows each other but us?”

She shook her head, golden curls bouncing. “Not a clue.” She had a Belgian accent and had slipped into French. Francis responded to her in the same language. 

“I believe this is a strange conspiracy, or a madhouse, and we’ve fallen prey to delusions.”

“Don’t you know we don’t say ‘madhouse’ anymore?” She scoffed, but remained smiling at him. 

“I call it like I see it.” 

Another confused person, as well-built blond similar to the Ludwig from earlier, but thinner and taller, approached them. Behind him was a smaller man, eyes bright like winter sky. Something was chilling behind that gaze, Francis thought. He began to walk back towards Arthur. 

Arthur was in a conversation with someone over the phone as Francis approached. Well, he was pretty cute and he mentioned flirting, so why not give it a shot? 

Arthur finished his conversation and turned towards Francis. “I have you an appointment with my colleague. She will examine your hand and hopefully get you discharged by the weekend. I assume you need to get back to work?” Dismissal of everything. Then, why did he sound so worried over the phone? Francis felt a disconnect somewhere, but could not quite locate it. Like a thread loose in fabric, he was worried to pull in case it all came unraveled. 

“Are you sure you, yourself, don’t want to examine me?” He leaned closer. He had put on his favorite perfume - masculine roses, whatever that meant. Arthur scrunched his nose at him.

“I hated the cologne. It always smelled. Didn’t give me sleep.” Arthur drifted off at the last word, his face igniting in red.

“Excuse me?”

“You. I’d smell it. You wore it to meetings and I could hardly sleep because it was such a vicious odor it gave me headaches.”

“Now, I may not know exactly what is happening or why everyone seems to know me but I don’t know them - but I can definitely pick up what you just said is absolutely false.”

Arthur turned redder. “Look, I really do have to head home and catch a wink of sleep. I’d happily get you a cab to the clinic. She’ll be out of there by four and, truly, I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“Arthur, do I know you from somewhere?”

“Well, yes, yes you do. Not in any way other than, ah, coworkers.” Arthur hedged away, taking another step back. Francis leaned a bit closer. He could smell Arthur’s breath, toffee. “No, truly, the truth is unnecessary at this moment.” 

“I see.” Francis stood up straight, beginning to lean a hand into the wall but finding his right wrist was heavier than normal. He settled for setting his shoulder against the green wallpaper, looking down at Arthur. “I have a feeling we know each other quite well.” If he focused, he could almost call back a memory. He watched Arthur’s face, remember the details up close. Thin shoulders, sloped down in interrupted curves. Sharp scapulas, dotted with more freckles, thin shadows inviting closeness.

And, something else.

Scars. Long, jagged, open wounds seeping from that back. Blood pooling and pus weeping. Pain and violence. Francis pushed himself off the wall abruptly, his stomach turning violently. The complimentary hotel breakfast, oranges and toast and thankfully not potpourri-cabbage, threatened to make a sudden escape. Arthur touched his arm. 

“I told you it’s best not to have the truth now. Something is blocking you and I can’t help it. Here, let’s rest you.” Arthur led Francis away, fingers with perfectly cut nails and light pink cuticles lingered on Francis’ elbow. 

The rest of the meeting’s participants began to drift away. The problem not taken seriously. The levity of peace between them, smiles and jokes and confused nods. The meeting room was cleared and cleaned by a janitor shortly after. A group of women selling Tupperware and highly acidic make up met there next, laughing loudly. The meeting faded away, another thing to tally as the past. Another thing to forget. 

That night, Francis lay on his pristine white inn bed. Surgery was scheduled for the next morning to fix his neatly fractured scaphoid, as indicated by the printed x-ray on his nightstand, tucked beneath his keys and wallet. Francis rolled over to examine it again, lifting his wallet as he did so. Before he looked at the black and white image, the bones of his hand illuminated against darkness, he opened his wallet. He had Euros but no British pounds. He had paid for a dinner that evening, take out, and eaten it in his room, using the desk as a dinner table. He watched some man on YouTube explain mystery murders as he ate kebab and fries with mayonnaise. He considered pulling a few pounds from his bank account the next day and treat himself to a little London holiday shopping trip. He’d have to be careful, though. If he came to work in a new tie right away, his sudden medical leave would become suspicious. 

Francis paused looking through his wallet, finding the corner of a picture. He pulled it out and rolled over, holding the sepia-tinted square photograph in front of his face. He recognized everyone immediately, all in a rush.

He saw himself, his hair pulled back and in a lovely purple blouse standing next to Arthur , behind a young version of Alfred, and another boy he recognized as the extremely, painfully shy man who did not speak for the entire meeting. He did catch the man, tawny curled locks hiding his face, trying to speak to one of the women. 

All of them, all together. What did that mean? 

Francis remembered his past. He remembered growing up in a small town in Nice. Grape vines, liquid summer air, a single school house in the entire town ever child shared suffering in. He remembered his mother and father. Father scarred by war efforts but smiling nonetheless. Mother who made food at home and chastised Francis for how he wore his hair. A mother Francis had not called in a long, long time. Why couldn’t Francis remember much? Why didn’t Francis have a picture of her in his wallet? Well, people don’t normally carry pictures of their mother, he told himself. Then again, normal people don’t carry picture of strangers they could kind of remember, kind of not. 

Francis picked up his phone and texted a picture of the photograph to Arthur. The doctor had given him his mobile phone number just prior to leaving the building. His phone buzzed shortly after.

“Going into surgery. Text you in a second. -AK.” 

“OK.” Francis paused. He added: “-FB.” 

Francis had half dozed off watching more videos on his phone when it buzzed suddenly in his limp palm. He startled himself awake, blearily looking at his screen. White and blue muddied his vision, sleep a filmy layer between his eyelashes. He blinked it away, yawning widely. Arthur had responded.

“Sorry, Bartholin’s cyst about the size of my fist. Nasty. Don’t look it up. DO NOT.” 

Francis decided against looking up what that was. On a separate text: “Oh. You have this? Guess we all carry mementos. Here.” 

Another image loaded slowly on the inn’s shoddy wifi. 

It was a picture of the same four people. Now, the two younger men wore graduation garb, graduation caps, blue gowns, and red lapels. Alfred gave a smile with a mouth full of braces. The other boy - Matthew, where did he get that name? - had several cords hanging from his neck: gold, orange, pink, and purple. His diploma looked a bit different from Alfred’s, but both had some high school’s name on it. Francis saw himself standing behind Alfred, making bunny ears behind Arthur’s head, who stood smiling proudly behind Matthew, one hand on the young man’s shoulder. Same fingers, same immaculately trimmed nails. The quality of the picture was better. A date Francis could not make out was printed in yellow along the bottom left corner. 

“What is this? Why am I there?” Francis sent the text, followed by “Who am I?” 

“…”

“…”

“…” 

The dots, bouncing up on his screen again and again as Arthur hesitated, only served to worry Francis further. Why couldn’t he remember? His phone finally buzzed. 

“We were a family. You, Alfred, Matthew, and I. We were all together. They were young and orphaned - at that time - and you and I cared for them. It’s a good thing.

“As for who you are… I can’t explain that, I’m afraid. You go live your life happily. Things happened in the past that you probably can’t remember. Often people with troubled pasts have their psyche wash away these memories. ‘Repressed memories’, you’ve probably heard it called. It’s a real condition, I assure you. 

“However, it would be immeasurable cruel for me to keep you away from everything. It hurts just to type this, and not because I’m running on 3 hours of sleep, but because of everything that we’ve been through. If you want to know yourself, I can help. Let me know. But the choice is your. Blissful ignorance is no joke.

“Got to go. Have a good night. See you after surgery tomorrow. - AK”

That explained nothing. Francis frowned, hurt and a bit annoyed. He set his phone down and did his best to rest. 

He did not sleep well, that night. He cradled his splinted hand and twisted in his sleep. His dream soundless. He saw the man above his head, over and over. Crunch after crunch, but only in shock waves. No actual sound. Shock waves and blood landing over and over and over again on Francis’ cheek. Wet and slippery even in his dreams. The man staring down at him, begging for mercy and help. Mouth moving despite dead eyes. Despite disembowelment. If Francis had not looked away, could he have helped? He was no hero. He was nothing. Just an ordinary man with nothing troubling in his past. He was born and raised in Nice. He lived a peaceful life in Paris after graduating from Sorbonne University and being hired nearly immediately after graduating. He worked a well-paying job selling brand names the company or sometimes he himself made up. He made marketing strategies and sold those too. He had a boss he didn’t like but never saw except for HR needs, so it really wasn’t an issue. There were attractive men and women not only in his office but everywhere. He was lonely sometimes, but he was not unhappy. 

Would that change if he accepted memories back? If he opened himself back up to a past life he didn’t realize he had until the night before? Maybe he would be happy. He would have friends. All of these people felt close, closer than friends, even. Family. He felt connected and warm in their company. 

It felt like home.

. . . 

In the still hours of the early morning, the first of them fell. 

Emma felt a hot, painful grasp on her spine, but only after she had already been wounded. She looked down, holding the keycard to her hotel. She had a late night out and a couple of drinks. Nothing that would make her hallucinate, surely? But it was real. Painfully real. 

A claw-like hook stuck from her abdomen, coated in her own lifeblood. She trembled. Pain bloomed inside of her, around her, but she didn’t notice. This was something happening to someone else, not her. The oozing wound dripped on someone’s pretty black shoes. She felt hot tears prickle in her eyes. Her favorite dress was ruined, staining like wine. She sunk to her knees and felt something yank back, dragging something important with her. She smelled something vile and felt something fuzzy. Everything was odd and soft. 

As she lay, power crumbling, she had a sudden thought.

Francis, I know you. 

Arthur, Alfred, Kiku, Yao, Ivan, Lukas, Berwald, Felix, Toris, Matthew, Natalia, Katrina, Feliciano, Antonio… I know all of you. And there were more, so many more.

Everyone she thought of felt it pass through them, like a chilly winter wind. Francis woke up, sweat gleaming on his forehead, and stared into the darkness. Remembering, vividly. It wasn’t a choice anymore. Arthur, half-dozing on his doctor’s cot, sat up. Pain like a patient coding struck through him, but far deeper. Far worse.

She would have wept, but her tears had long dried.


	3. Alfred F. Jones - Snowfall

Earth - Present Day - London, Greatest British Isle

Alfred F. Jones - Snowfall

On Earth, it was horrific. The snowfall. 

Alfred watched the hull transported by dockers, the corpse still inside of it, to be incinerated as far from Earth as it could go. The emergency dockers - tiny vessels that cling to the outside of a ship and are able to control it through remote signals - appearing like five unsightly ticks on it surface, steadily lifting it away.

Alfred watch it go, standing in his splattered suit as a snow began to fall. The flakes looked like soot mixed with blood, and no matter how much fell it would never clear the sky of its perpetual crimson smog. Snow used to be a thing of purity, falling silent on white nights. Christmas beckoning. Fireplaces cackling a step snow fell silently, piling on porches and backyards. Now, Alfred hated it. He stared up in resent, his face set in stone. 

He knew he needed to retreat to a disinfection station, located outside the theatre doors. He’d have to crawl out of his suit and have it blast away the spores from it. And from himself. They had all learned a hard lesson about neglecting the spores. Kiku had already gone on, following medics as they carried Arlene off. Arthur led the medics like a battle regiment, directing every movement. 

“Highly likely for a spinal injury. Multiple fracture. Internal bleeding. Chances are slim, but I believe we have a fighting chance.” He announced. His practice in Emergency Medicine and surgery evident in his practically bunny-hopping gait and adrenaline soaked commands. 

All for his lead engineer. All for the information she held.

Alfred turned his face away from the crumbling, dusting sky. He began his descent down to disinfection. 

Once clean, he entered a makeshift medical bay. An IV pole stood by a quarantined Arlene. It wasn’t safe to get her to disinfection, it seemed. Or maybe not worth the time. The sealed off room, maybe once the costume room of the theatre, warded off everyone but the physicians and nurses. Arthur, in a modified hazmat suit, walked anxiously to a fro. He waved something at a nurse who turned away from him, carrying a sample of blood. Arthur pulled a cart towards him, medical equipment rattling as he dragged it over uneven floors. This wasn’t an operating theatre, but it was the best they had. 

Alfred heard Kiku walk up next to him, if only because of Kiku’s change in outfit. His footsteps still made no sound. He wore a t-shirt tucked into jeans, his hands in his pockets. He had several healing cuts on his face and forearms. 

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“And I’m sorry.”

“Again, for what?” Kiku had his gaze on Alfred. He was wearing his square black frames, dark eyes peering through thick lenses. 

“For taking care of Arlene, soldier. For helping her when I stood there like an idiot. For taking command and sticking that fucker right in its weird heart-eye thing.”

“Yes, I wonder what that is. It’s complete luck that I even found it.”

“Found it?”

“Yes. I had figured the beasts had to have some central organ. Like we have hearts, brains, lungs, and so on. I also figured its was more central, since its body seemed to be able to take so many direct hits without damaging anything. Less surface area for vital organs to hit, that’s a bonus for safety. Not great for its physiology… I’m lucky I found it.”

Was Kiku rambling?

“Are you ok?”

“I’m a bit frightened. It’s lucky I came on to look around then rather than waiting to be sent up next week, like Arthur said.”

“Yeah, amen to that.”

Kiku nodded. “Why are you sorry? You said you were sorry.”

“I am. I’m sorry for dragging you up there in the first place. But, I guess, it worked out. We rescued one of my crew members.” Alfred paused. “We gathered data.”

“Important as that is, I’m happy you’re well.” Said a third voice.

Both Alfred and Kiku turned, seeing Yao before them. Yao wore loosely fitting sweat pants and a light blue shirt dangerously resembling a crop-top. Alfred looked away from Yao’s unbelievably toned abdominal muscles. Yao had his hair down, pooling in front of him down his shoulders. He furrowed his brows at them. 

“I sent a log to the researchers, detailing everything you and Kiku have told me.” Yao said. Alfred nodded his thanks. “Now, I’d advise you to leave here before Arthur personally escorts you.” He turned away. 

He was right, a fuming Arthur was approaching their side of the tent. He had a face mask on and thick glasses, but his annoyance with them was clear.

“Ok, ok King Arthur.” Alfred said, raising his hands in surrender. He and Kiku left, making their way towards the cafeteria for food, the agreement unspoken between them. 

“You’re a real leader. A real captain, I mean.” Alfred said as they approached the deliciously smelling room. Their hunger had been forgotten for hours after the fight. Now, with some rest befuddled by anxiety for Arthur’s operation, they felt their stomach clench. How long had it been since breakfast, anyway? 

“Ah, no.” Kiku blushed lightly. If Alfred hadn’t been staring at Kiku so intently, he would have easily missed the cue. “I did what was needed. You’re a captain. You’re brave and headstrong.” 

Alfred flexed his biceps. “More like captain to these dangerous pythons.” He flexed harder, a vein leaping out along the curve of his arm where muscles did indeed bulge.

“If that was a joke, pun, or pick up line - it was awful. Please never repeat that one to me ever again.”

Alfred laughed, tension unwinding. He recalled Arlene, sedated and in pain, just above their heads. How could he be laughing when she was dying? The tension wound back up into an even tighter ball. He wasn’t sure he could even eat. 

As if reading his mind, Kiku touched Alfred’s elbow. “We won’t be useful if we swoon from hunger.”

“I never swoon.”

“Alfred, I shall tell you a secret.”

“An ancient samurai secret? Katanas were actually infused with the souls of the damned, and every wannabe mother’s basement type is actually just fuel for another, stronger samurai once he dies and the katana passes down?”

“What? No.” 

“Oh.”

“It’s not souls of the damned, it’s souls of the _wicked_ and damned.”

“My bad, my bad.”

“No, you distracted me.” Kiku smiled at him. Then he narrowed his gaze and pointed in accusation. “I saw you looking at Yao.”

“He was wearing a crop top.”

“It was just a short shirt.”

“I could see his abs. He’s fucking ripped.”

“You’d never tell, if you didn’t see.”

“No, never. Not in a million years.” 

“So you weren’t just, well, looking?” Alfred thought he heard Kiku hesitate, but he wasn’t sure. Might have just been wishful thinking.

“I don’t want to sleep with him. Scout’s honor. Cross my heart and hope to die.” He held up his right hand while he made a big X with his left, over his chest. 

“I did not imply that.” Maybe Kiku was just a smidge relieved, with that tone of voice. Again, wishful thinking.

“Still think it’s a crop top. And he was showing off.” Alfred said.

They had reached the cafeteria, stopping and starting too many times to get to the line before it extended almost to the doors. There weren’t as many people in these big conferences as there were at the start, but it was still at least twenty hungry people to feed and not that big of a cafeteria. It was meant for ballerinas, actors, and hungry directors. Small clumps of people at a time. Now, repurposed for all the King’s Horses and all the King’s men. Alfred thoughtfully gave himself at least 2 points for that joke. He didn’t say it aloud, knowing full well Kiku was a great critic of his comedy and would not even delight him with a chuckle. 

“It was not a crop top.” Kiku lowered his voice. “Besides, Ivan isn’t here. He’s in the arctic with a research group.”

“What does Ivan have to do with this?”

“You mean you don’t know? Do you have eyes? It’s clear as day.”

“Are they fucking?”

Kiku flushed a deep red. On him, it looked much more gorgeous than in the sky and in the snow. Kiku turned away. “In so many words, possibly. They are certainly excellent partners.” The lined moved up quickly. A pair of women, both holding steamed vegetables. It was amazing that Arthur had supplied fresh greens to this conference. The only greens left in the world were grown in greenhouses. As efficient as they had becomes shipping was difficult without an abundance of gasoline. Yet, Arthur had made the extra effort to feed these people well. Likely, he had helped bring in a massive shipment of greens from the now-extinct Netherlands himself. Bringing greens not only to this theatre, but to all the remaining citizens of the Greatest British Isle. Arthur probably guarded the cars, his armor dangerous both to rogues to an the enemy, Earth’s plague. If he could give hope here, he could inspire hope in what else remained of the world.

“Great partners? Oh just business partners. You remind me of those archaeologists that see corpses buried for hundreds of years cuddled up together, both male and clearly in their death bed together, and say ‘ah yes, quite quite’.” Alfred tutted in an exaggerated British accent that would have annoyed Arthur too no end. “‘I do believe these fine young gentleman were fellow soldiers, here in the same burial site because they were just the jolliest and goodest and bestest of buds.’” He mimed a monocle and sniffed in what he hoped was a sophisticated manner. 

Kiku’s shoulders shook with laughter. For this, Alfred awarded himself at least 50 comedy points. He made Kiku laugh, that was the greatest bonus he could have hoped for. Kiku was near tears when the line finally reached them. A lunch lady, an older woman with a sweet dimpled face, asked what they would like.

“We’ve got steamed veggies, meat pies - not real meat, mind, but what can one do? - and we’ve got those nutrition bars.” Alfred pulled a face that the lady nodded at in agreement. “Not a fan favorite.”

“Meat pie, please.” Alfred said without much consideration. It wouldn’t be quite a delicacy as the maybe real pork from the night before, but food was food. And nutrition bars were most decidedly not food. Kiku ordered vegetables. 

Kiku lead the way out of the cafeteria and to a different room. “Somewhere quiet.” He said. 

They found a theatre, a circular one with only a handful of high rising seats surrounding a lowered stage. This was the only other stage in the building, aside from the massive semi-circular one that held the big performances. And if the ballroom was a stage, then there were three total. Large, reinforced windows were built in to this room, pooling in the red, snowy light from outside. The construction for such windows had stopped halfway through, though. Tape marked where more would go. Early days. When such things were necessary. 

They ate for some time in silence, watching the world outside. The empty streets gaped in front of it, a bit higher than where the window started as this theatre was sunken into the ground. Cars were still parked, some broken into and damaged, others never touch. A light film of red covered the cars, the street, the lamp posts. More flakes fell. Silent, watching, unforgiving of what had been done to the earth. 

“I miss it.” Alfred whispered.

“Me too.” Kiku said, setting his fork down on an empty plate. “I miss the steps that led to my old home. They were circular stones, surrounding by other, smaller stones. A zen garden, I think you call it. It was lovely.”

“Was the sky clear?”

“Often. And when it snowed, it was never like this. Like the haiku. ‘Snow. Unceasing snow’.” Kiku paused. “Is it beautiful, up there? In space?”

Alfred paused for a moment. He imagined the world outside the space hall. The hall itself had no windows, but venturing on top and outside of it gave you a view. You could see everything. Earth, a speck of blue. Jupiter, a smear of orange against the darkness. And the nebulas. The nebulas glittered and swirled and twisted. The fabric of the sky, as if dotted with diamonds and rubies and sapphires, turned and moved. Space, always moving apart and closer all at once. Alfred smiled, nodding. “It’s gorgeous.”

“As much as I don’t want to be up there, I hope to see it.” 

“I can’t describe it to do it justice. You’ll just have to come up with me. Even if things get really messed up, I promise I’ll show you someday.”

Kiku leaned back against the chair. Alfred wished Kiku would slump against his shoulder. Wishful thinking. “Thank you.” 

Alfred nodded wordlessly. 

. . . 

Arlene was awake. Hardly lucid, but awake. She stared at the suited up Alfred, who sat next to her. She had emergency spine surgery. Arthur had walked out grim faced and uncertain. He told Alfred and Kiku that she was fine, for now. But he wasn’t sure if he warded off the reaper or simply distracted him. Arthur, clearly drained from the several hour surgery, sat down on one of the lounge chairs in the cigar parlor room and fell promptly asleep. Alfred pulled on Arthur’s discarded kind-of-hazmat suit and slipped away to the operating room, Kiku in tow. 

“Alfred…” Arlene whispered. Her voice broken. Each breath had a worrisome wetness to it. Alfred patted her head with his gloved hand, pushing dark curls from her face. She stared at him blearily, tears beading at the edges of her eyes. “Damn, Alfred. That guy who saved me. That the one you talk about all the time?”

Alfred, alarmed, looked behind him. Kiku sat on one of the chairs, reading a book. He gave no indication that he heard. He looked back at Arlene, hoping the face shield obscured his expression. “I mean, yes. But not in that way, no.”

“You don’t have to lie. I’m beyond that now.” She whispered.

“No, not yet.” Alfred said, more forcefully than he originally intended to. “I mean, Arthur was hopeful. He fixed you up good.” 

The fact that she was awake now and not in a stupor seemed odd to Alfred, worrying. He ignored the nagging fear in the pit of his stomach, setting it aside with all his other worries for now. It felt like that pile only ever grew bigger as his reserves of hope dwindled. He swallowed, hard, and turned to look at Arlene, still gently patting her hair. 

“Alfred, the others.”

“Hush,” Alfred said softly. “You can tell me later.”

“Alfred, stop being stupid.” She said, frowning. She convulsed with a shiver, pain spreading across her face like lava. Hot and burning and slow. “I don’t have much time you idiot. Listen.”

“I—!”

“No, shut up and listen. The others, the others were there when that thing lurked out. But it wasn’t that big when it got me. It was smaller. It peeled out of the wall.”

“You’re not making sense. You can tell me after you’ve rested.”

“No, I’m telling you.” She choked, coughed hard. Bloody phlegm burst from her mouth. Alfred wiped it off with the blanket that covered her, lacking anything else. He worry only worsened. She continued, pausing for breaths as deep as she could get between sentences. “It was a thing on the wall. It detached and stuck to Ted. I saw it and tried to scream, tried to tell them to back away. It wasn’t those fuzzy yetis we see all the time, Alfred. It was worse. Way worse. It was tiny and stringy. Like a jellyfish. And it clung to Ted, making him drop like a rock. I heard his voice say ‘hello’. I thought maybe it was deluding him, but when I got to his body, and flipped him over he was long dead. The voice came from it. It came again, saying ‘hello’, with that drawl like Marshall used to. Before I knew it, it split in two and got me. I was so dumbfounded at hearing Marshall that I couldn’t think. I’m sorry.”

She coughed, hard. Body shuddering violently. She could break at any second. Her eyes were wet with tears of pain and sorrow.

“It got me then it went dark. But it spoke, using Marshall’s voice. It must have been on there for a while. Marshall was caught before we came down to Earth…” Tears dripped down her eyes. Every time she said the man’s name, her face clenched in sorrow. “Alfred, something’s different. Something’s wrong. When I was in that thing I saw things. I saw inhuman things, like I was hallucinating but I wasn’t. I think I was seeing it, for itself. There’s more to this. How’d it get so big so fast? One second Ted and I were docking, the next I was floating in space for what felt like a thousand years. The second after that, I was being rescued by you two.”

Alfred wasn’t sure how to digest the information. He sat and he stared, squeezing her hand gently as he could in response. 

“I’ll let you rest.”

“Al…” 

“Please, rest. Be here when I come back.”

She watched him go. She stared up at the seeing, feeling the oxygen flow through her nostrils and into her bleeding, broken lungs. “Dumbass.”

Alfred recounted what Arlene had told him, best he could and while it was fresh in his memory, to Kiku. He recited it like issuing a report to a commander. Flat faced, monotone, and as much like a recitation of facts as he could manage without being overwhelmed with fear. Kiku watched him, holding his book on his lap between two tightly gripping hands. Kiku nodded, biting his lower lip. “She’s right. There’s more to this.” 

“I know she’s right. She’s always right, that’s her problem.” Alfred sat down next to Kiku. “Too smart for her own good.”

“Seems so.” Arthur said.

Alfred and Kiku turned suddenly, seeing Arthur in the doorway. He had already dressed in street clothes, glittering armor wrapped around his torso and arms. A bag hung over his shoulder, sturdy but whitened leather. He was staring at Arlene, her chest rising and falling in staccato rhythm. Arthur shook his head, lowering his gaze to the floor. Pain crept across his features. 

“I tried, but I only bought her more time. And, I’m running out of funds.” 

Kiku and Alfred wordlessly shifted, exchanging glances, letting Arthur speak. He only sighed and stood straighter. The buzzing fluorescents caught against his pearled armor, glimmering and dancing and cold. “This city needs me, as they say. I have to head out. Will you two be alright here?”

“Is there danger, Arthur?” Kiku was already on his feet. 

“No, no danger. I usually go about this time and make my rounds.” Arthur shrugged. “I go to each of the micro-colonies and see what the people need, see what I can give them. It isn’t much and it’s a long walk. I expect to be back late tonight. Please, call me if you have any concerns.” Arthur touched the earpiece. Kiku nodded, fingers pushing his hair back like a curtain, exposing the small plastic electronic. Alfred didn’t have his own, so he’d have to rely on Kiku. Not that he couldn’t get one, nor that they were particularly difficulty to obtain. All he had to do was approach Yao and request one be fit to his ear, matched to their collected frequency, and stick it in his ear of choice. Something about a constant communication device partially implanted in his brain, albeit he could take these things out at any time, and coming from Yao of all people. It all just rubbed him the wrong way. A blaze of red burned behind his vision at the thought, completely irrationally. 

As he was considering, Arthur had retreated from the doorway. Tiny bell-like chimes sounded in his wake. 

“What now?” Alfred asked. “Wait til Arlene gets better then head out? We have to busy ourselves somehow.”

Kiku winced. “Yes, we’ll… wait until she’s improved. Then head out back on our front. Arthur will probably postpone the water front until Arlene — until things settle here.” 

“Right, right.”

Why couldn’t Alfred face the grim reality? He asked himself, biting the inside of his cheek in anger. He knew it well, he knew Arlene would likely die. Yet he spoke with hope. He spoke as if things could heal and mend just like they did before. That Arthur hadn’t preformed emergency surgery on the second floor of a theatre, using boiling water for sterilization and relying on luck instead of a well-known plan with a well-known outcome. It was lucky Arlene had pulled through this far. Just enough to talk to Alfred, to get her words out. Even if it was all fatally grim, Alfred continued to watch Arlene breathe in and out. A nurse entered through the same door Arthur left, smiling politely at Alfred and Kiku. She was one of the half dozen Arthur had miraculously gathered even as he rushed back to the hull, following Kiku’s call for help. 

“How’re you, dearie?” She said, slipping on her own suit. A speck of mold could prove dangerous this deep in the inner city. She approached Arlene, grasping the woman’s bandaged arm and measuring her pulse. Arlene said something to her. The nurse turned back to look at Alfred and Kiku, but standing still like statues. She nodded at them. “Go along now, I can handle it from here.” She was an older woman, her silvered hair tied taut, pulling the wrinkles of her eyes. 

Alfred and Kiku departed once more. Alfred, boldly, touched Kiku’s shoulder. He expected a rejection or shrugging away. Kiku did not move, but he didn’t lean into Alfred’s hand, either. He turned to look at Alfred, eyebrows raised. Alfred pulled away, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

There was nothing left to do but wait. 


	4. Elizaveta Héderváry - Dream State

Earth - After the Meeting, Before the Fall - the Amazon 

Elizaveta Héderváry - Dream State

The humidity draped across the curling, twisting dark green vines. Calls of strange, colorful birds echoed through the forest, bouncing off the canopy, singing down on to the wet, warm dirt. Rushing streams of the Amazon gurgling and breathed, alive. It was an adventure, and Elizaveta thought it beautiful. She pushed beneath a low hanging branch, holding its springy joint out from her, letting Gilbert push from behind her, whining like a mosquito.

“Oh god, why did we have to come here? Gil, it’ll be fun!” He waved a pale hand before his face, discouraging biting insects. “But no. All I get is bitten! Bitten and burned and hot and uncomfortable. Eliza, you—!” She let the springy branch swing back, thwacking Gilbert across his distinctly very sunburnt face. She pushed on, pressed her legs against thick heavy roots to launch herself into a more open clearing of the rainforest.

Behind her, Gilbert continued to whine. “What am I? A cartoon? Eliza!” He cried out, rushing forwards. His heavy backpack rattled noisily. Eliza paused, poised on an especially large root. She watched his white head bob as he panted for breath, stopping just short of her. Hands on his knees, he looked up. Annoyed, red eyes glowered at her.

“What’s in your bag?” 

“My bag?” His face fell. “Nothing.”

Eliza jumped off the root and reached for Gilbert’s bag. She pulled it up, but he resisted. The blades of his shoulders pushed through his brown, sweat-stained T-shirt. He twisted, struggling against her much stronger grip. He was built lean and thin, strong nonetheless. Not as strong as Eliza, more muscled, and much more determined to figure out what that horrible rattling was. This much resistance could mean nothing good. Which meant… 

“If you brought what I think you brought, you better swear to God I won’t beat you to next week.” She tugged harder. Brown curls clung to her cheeks. 

“Something wrong?” An exasperated voice behind them.

Eliza turned, letting go. Gilbert stumbled, landing on his back like a turtle. He pushed himself up half-way as the rest of their group emerged from the path. Roderich’s bespectacled, gleaming face approached first, followed shortly by Basch and Erika. Eliza watched them approach, pointed at Gilbert, “He brought the goddamn knife. The fancy one, not even a useful one!” 

She had had it with Gilbert at this point. They had only been traveling a day and a half together, but the nearly 12 hour flight from Berlin to Rio wore her nerves thin. Now he brought this antique with him, one she explicitly told him was not worth bringing as they left the hotel in Rio, and he was insisting he was right. Roderich didn’t seem to have much patience left, but told Eliza to get on with it, or they would waste the day arguing. Eliza acquiesced, but only for their task at hand. Also because Erika was becoming increasingly anxious and tossing Eliza looks of distress. Basch didn’t look like he cared one way or the other. 

Gilbert was arguing with Roderich, insisting Eliza was psychotic. Roderich sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose, only for them to slide against his sweat all over again. “We can handle this civilly, I’m sure. I’d rather Eliza not murder you.”

“I could so take her in a fight.”

“You want to try?” Eliza cracked her knuckles. 

“I so would and I would win, ‘Liza.” 

Stepping between them, Erika held her hands out. “Please, oh please just stop.” She cried out. Her short, closely cut blonde hair plastered to her face. She eyed Eliza and Gilbert, clear worry on her face. She let her hands fall, seeing as Gilbert and Eliza only stared at her blankly. “Please, we came here to have fun.” She tried, finding her words with some difficulty. She clasped her hands beneath her chin, turning towards Gilbert first. “Also I don’t want to be here when it gets too dark. Can we get to the site, please?”

Basch stepped close to Gilbert, so close Gilbert could probably smell his breath. He muttered something Eliza couldn’t hear, but understood well enough by the blanching of Gilbert’s reddened face. He turned away from them all, disengaging and letting his ego flag. He began towards the path again, leaving the group behind. 

Roderich frowned at Eliza. 

“He gets more annoying the longer you’re stuck with him.” He sighed to himself. He adjusted his blue polo beneath the clasp of his backpack, trying to let in air. The only air available was damp and warm, Eliza wanted to say, so he wouldn’t get much relief. Before she could, however, Roderich had continued to move forwards, followed by Basch. Basch pushed his limp bangs from his eyes, brushing them towards the small ponytail he had made of his short hair. Erika followed shortly after, not one to let her brother get far away. This left Eliza in the back, still annoyed. 

She sighed, ready to march on, stopping just short. At her feet lay a plant. Unusual, gold leafed and tiny. Eliza crouched to her knees, examining the specimen. Gold-colored leaves burst from a twisted, white stem. In the center a red dot, a pinprick of blood. Eliza pulled her phone from a strap on her shoulder, snapping pictures of the plant from as many angles as she could. It was unusually colored. A tiny leaf plant at the rainforest floor, low surface area and fragile to break with a gust of wind, seemed extremely unfavorable for a species. Likely, Eliza considered, it was a mutant of some other plant that had survived long enough for Eliza to see. Besides, plant albinism wasn’t very common. Eliza thought of Gilbert and curled her lip in discontent. Human albinism wasn’t common either, and it came with a side of “impossible to deal with”. 

Speaking of the Devil, Eliza rose and trotted after the group, careful not to tread on the delicate plant. She’d show Roderich pictures of it later and discuss its implications, and if perhaps it had anything of importance. 

Eliza approached the rest of her friends, who had stopped by a stream. Gilbert stood on a rock, raising his arms in a stretch. His shirt pulled back, exposing a slash of black tattoo, stark against white skin. Next to him, Roderich had set down his bag and pulled out several falcon tubes. He pulled on plastic gloves, crouching by the stream. Further off, Basch stood, surveying the landscape, his back stick straight, but his hands relaxed at his sides. Erika sat on a separate rock, stretching her legs, pale curves of flesh catching against the dappling sunlight. She smiled as Eliza approached. 

“What took you so long?” She asked.

Eliza shook her head, “Saw something cool. I’ll show you a bit later.” Erika nodded, turning her face up to bask in the rays of sunlight that pushed through the shadows of trees, pooling in leaf-shaped patches on her face and down her body. 

Eliza stopped by Roderich, kneeling on one knee and watching as he marked several of the tubes with careful penmanship. He scooped dirt from the riverbed, pouring it into one of the falcon tubes. He shook it, raising it at eye level to make sure he had enough. He’d send the sample off and those who knew what to do with it would carry out the rest of the experiment. Eliza and Roderich were only surveyors, here to collect data and nod as a team of Wang Yao’s researchers excitedly explained their plans. At least, that was the plan once they reached the site. 

“I hope it does whatever they need it to do.” Eliza said, fixing the laces of her hiking boot. She noticed welts rising on her ankle, beginning to itch as soon as she noticed them. She scratched at it, leaving long white marks around the irritated skin. 

“I hope so…” Roderich nodded, putting his supplies away. “It seems important to Mr. Wang. I never would have thought dirt could be so important.” He taught Music Theory at a university in Vienna. This was the last place he, or his students, would ever have thought of him going. Dirty, sweaty, and caught in Amazon humidity holding a plastic tube of dirt. The absolute opposite of the well-dressed, lavender-smelling professor he was at home. That didn’t matter. This, this was for his friends. And Eliza, of course she’d go, she’d said. So did Basch and Erika, and eventually Gilbert as well. Arthur and Yao had turned to science, to research. 

It was straightforward, it was right. The meeting a month or so ago had unsettled them all. Erika had even refused to leave her bedroom for a couple of hours following the stress of Emma’s loss. The painful memory of loss pricked at Eliza’s heart, drawing fresh blood from a hardly healed wound. 

Emma had been her friend, once, in one of their lives. 

Erika stood up, rustling in her backpack and pulling out a large water bottle and several energy bars. Her backpack leaned against the rock she sat on. She handed these out, tossing one to Gilbert who stood in the middle of the stream, balancing on a rock. In his hand was that damn knife, Eliza saw, and he was tossing it, spinning it, catching it by the handle. Its silver hilt glittered in the sunlight, blurring into liquid metal from the speed of his toss. Eliza chewed on the energy bar, took a sip when the water bottle was passed to her, and approached Gilbert. She stepped over the rocks on the shallow stream. Flicks of water crept up her ankles, threatening her with a small cloud of mosquitos. She ignored it and thrust the water bottle into Gilbert chest. He huffed, his mouth full of chocolate-peanut butter flavored protein. He grasped the bottle, swallowed, and readied himself to fight.

“What’s the big idea? You’ve been a bitch this entire time. What do you want me to do? Drown?” He pushed back against her with his elbow, his face flushed. 

“I’m sick of your attitude. All you do is whine. Why did you even come? This is important and all you do is bitch and moan.” Eliza snapped back at him, her heart burning. She heard someone speak behind her, but tuned it out. They could break them apart after she broke Gilbert’s nose. Her fist clenched, ready to strike him. 

“Everyone’s all spooked because Emma got mugged and murdered.” Gilbert hissed back at her. “It’s like Arthur said, it’s all probably not a big deal.”

“He didn’t say that.”

“He meant it.”

“And what the fuck do you mean about Emma? Do you not care?”

“Of course I care!” Gilbert turned away from her, hopping the rest of the way to the other side of the stream. “I just don’t think a monster or anything killed her. I think Francis saw something and made shit up. You know him, he gets weird.” 

Eliza was left in the center of the stream her boots progressively dampening with each splash from the current. She glowered at him. “Doesn’t matter. Something’s wrong with the world, something you clearly don’t give half a shit about.”

“What is your problem?” He called again, his fist tight around the hilt of his blade.

“You! You are the problem.” 

“Eliza, knock it off.” Roderich said, his professor-voice leaking through. “We’re here to help. To help Emma. That’s why we were sent here. Please, calm down.” 

Eliza, wanting to say something more, stopped herself. She saw Basch behind Roderich,approaching them both, his impassive facade seeping away to distinct fatigue. No one had slept well on the plane. Ever since the meeting no one had slept well, actually. Sure maybe it wasn’t a monster, but something was wrong and everyone could feel it. But, Gilbert really did whine a lot more than usual. Travel fatigue? Fear? A rational piece of Eliza’s mind clamored for her to let her anxiety go, or at least not point it towards Gilbert like a dagger. He was digesting the news as best he could. All of them were. Arthur’s call to action following the incident, the email and the phone call, and the meeting her tried to schedule afterwards but failed, everyone’s emotions too tangled and wounded and bleeding and broken — all of it felt like nothing in comparison to Emma’s death. A faulty effort. 

Emma had carried a tune of Roderich as he played the piano, trying to produce a new piece of music. Emma had traded Belgian for Swiss chocolates with Basch. And Erika— Eliza turned her read, landing on empty air. 

Erika was missing. She leapt back towards Roderich, scanning behind him in the small clearing. The rock Erika sat on was empty, save for her backpack. 

“Erika?” 

Basch stepped closer to the backpack, analyzing their surroundings. Eliza, Roderich, and Gilbert let go their argument, all hearts racing, all worry rising. 

“She probably went to take a piss,” Gilbert said, but he sounded worried.

“And not tell anyone?” Eliza countered.

“Probably because you were all arguing,” Roderich said, trying for patience, “She said she was leaving and we didn’t hear.”

“She wouldn’t leave her bag.” Basch muttered. 

“Erika!” Eliza cried out, eyeing through the heavy tree trunks, peering between twisted bark and dangling branch. She saw flecks of color and motion here and there, but they only turned out to be birds or other hidden creatures. “Erika!” She called again, looking up and down the stream, from where it exited from between trees, pooling from twisted darkness. Then, down towards where it sloped into more rainforest. Birds cried after Eliza’s worried calls. 

“Split up,” Eliza said, “Everyone take a direction. Meet back here in half an hour unless something happens, then find that person.”

“What could happen?” Gilbert asked, crossing his arms. His brows arched. “You think something is attacking us? Think Eliza got abducted by cannibals?”

“Gilbert!” Roderich hissed.

“What? I’m just saying, God…” 

“Quick, please.” Eliza took off from where they came from, Rustling of grasses and branches told her someone went to the left and another to the right. She doubted Gilbert was the first to dash, but placed her anger away for now. It would not due to think of punching him in the face right this second.

Eliza slid down a steep incline she didn’t remember from entering the clearing in the first place, but took it in stride anyway. She stuttered at the end of the hill, her ankles burning from the tension of holding herself straight. She pushed forwards, analyzing, scanning, watching. She saw more of the tiny gold-white flowers here and there, dotting the scenery like watchful eyes. In one place they were abundant enough that their ruby-red centers looked like speckled stars. Eliza, once she or someone found Erika, would take pictures. But now, it didn’t matter. Eliza listened, feeling like she almost heard something. Something like a cry back.

“Erika?” Eliza called out again and lapsed into silence, listening, hoping the echoing of her voice would die down before a call could come back. 

Again, the response, a bit stronger this time. “Eliza?” 

“Erika!” Eliza ran in the direction of the noise. “Erika where are you? Just keep calling for me, I’ll follow the sound of your voice.” 

“Eliza…” Again, from in front of her and to the right. Eliza followed the sound, looking around her, on the ground, seeing if she could find the head of wheat-blonde hair, see the white shirt, see the beige cargo pants. “Eliza, I’m hurt.” 

“It’s ok, you’ll be ok!” 

Eliza rounded behind a tree and gasped in relief, her heart thundering even harder.

Erika leaned against a tree, holding her arm. She was pale and sweat dripped down her chin, but otherwise she was fine. She smiled as Eliza found her, crouching down. Erika shifted when Eliza grasped her shoulders, placing a gentle hand on Erika’s back, pushing her forwards. 

“Erika, are you ok? Where are you hurt? Oh, I thought something happened.” Eliza hugged Erika briefly, felt her wince, and quickly retracted. Erika shook her head, letting go of her arm. She revealed a large, purplish red bruise that blossomed from her shoulder to her elbow. Besides looking painful, it was otherwise alright. Erika was fine. 

“Basch would kill me if anything happened,” Eliza breathed, her fingers on Erika’s injured elbow. Erika laughed quietly. 

“I’m really thirsty… Do you…?”

Eliza nodded, rolling her backpack off her shoulder and pulling out a canteen of water. Erika grasped at it, thirstily trickling water into her mouth. Eliza noticed Erika’s pale, pink lips were cracked and broken. Small scabs bled lightly at the corner’s of her mouth as she drank. When did she let herself get so dehydrated? 

“You were all gone for so long,” Erika said softly, holding the canteen to her chest. “I was worried you’d never find me. That I would be here at night.” Tears tumbled down her cheeks. “I was worried you forgot about me.”

“We were only gone for a few minutes,” Eliza said, holding Erika’s small hand in her own calloused, slightly larger one. “How—how long did you think we were gone?”

“Think? I… I went to grab something else from my backpack but I tripped. I fell hard, I think, because I rolled down that hill. I hurt my arm but…” She looked away, her gaze hazy. “I don’t remember what happened after that.” 

“It’s alright. You might have hit your head a bit and went unconscious. I hear time gets weird after that.” 

Erika’s hazy gaze steadied and sharpened. She rose to her feet, her knees trembling. Eliza stood up as well, holding Erika still. Erika shook her head. “No, something’s wrong. I saw something. I know I did. Where is everyone?” She looked around, seeking. 

“We all went in different directions to look for you. We agreed to meet at the stream. So, let’s go there and wait.” Eliza said, starting in that direction. Erika followed, her eyes now wide with fear. 

The climbed the incline, now even steeper than it was a moment before. Erika trembled as she rose, but went even before Eliza, letting go of the taller woman’s grasp. She pushed through to that clearing, practically climbing of the incline. Eliza’s feet slipped. 

There was no way it was like this before. This was the same path, though. It had to be. Eliza recognized the white flowers along the trail. Though, there did seem to be more of them. Eliza grabbed the edge of what now had become a cliff and hauled herself up. 

On her knees before her was Erika, who let out a blood-churning scream.

Eliza shoved herself forwards, her legs dangling off the steep cliff. She crawled next to Erika, looking at what Erika saw. She expected some fresh horror. She expected to see her friends mangled, but only saw Basch, Gilbert, and Roderick rushing towards Erika. Erika, no longer screaming, reeled back on her heels. She held her arms before her face, pulling away. “No, no no no no no no, don’t touch me!” She yelled, leaning until she was about to fall off the edge. 

Roderich stopped short, his outstretched hands still. Gilbert seemed worried, his face pulled with stress. “Erika…?”

“Erika? What’s the meaning of this? What are you doing?” Basch grabbed his sister’s arm, pulling her to her feet. Erika twisted and pulled against him, dragging her flesh against the bruised skin. Basch didn’t seem to notice the bruise. 

“You aren’t him!” She cried out, landing a kick to Basch’s shin and then into his crotch. Basch let go from the sudden pain, curling his body in, holding his thighs. 

“What do you mean?”

Eliza grabbed Erika, holding her arms against her side. 

“Erika, it’s fine. They’re fine. We’re all ok.” Eliza tried to sound as soothing as possible. But Erika’s screaming confused her, seeming to clutch at her reality and shake it.

She glanced again at the three men and found they really weren’t people she knew. Eliza grabbed Erika harder. Roderich wasn’t Roderich - she could see that now, clear as day. She wasn’t certain how she mistook this stranger for her friend. It was impossible. This man was someone completely different, someone wrong and perverse, grinning at Eliza with too many teeth. Behind him, the not-Gilbert watched her, sightless eyes, strange face. Basch, head tilted up, seemed no longer in pain. And no longer Basch. 

Everything was wrong. Everything, everything, everything. The trees were melting, seeping into the sky, dripping upwards, falling apart. The structure of the forest was collapsing, leaving a dream-state, an illusion, Eliza fell to her knees, still holding Erika. She held tight, but the smaller woman writhed and shuddered in her grip, peeling out, pouring like liquid, rising with the trees and the sky and the now scarlet, scarlet sky. 

And the creatures not human not her friends—

They approached and reached and grasped—

Tugging and hungry and wanting— 

Holding Eliza by her hair, she felt the straining pain like her scalp would tear at any moment, losing her mind losing her mind—

She felt something when they touched her, so many hands, on her neck and face and arms and legs. Something she never felt before, hopes and dreams and a strange planet far away. A bitter, weak pulsing heart, each beat weaker. The atrium walls thinned, the valves were broken. The piece was dying, this organ, and she felt the pain. The pain of loss, of helplessness, as if this shared pain was her own. 

Eliza pulled her eyes open, not sure when she had screwed them shut. She saw eyes stare at her. Human eyes, wet and brown, watching her. Set on an inhuman, grey face. She fought and she fought, fighting against the weight of emotions that weren’t hers, fighting so hard she felt her chest would rupture. She reeled her arm back and punched. She felt her fist connect with a crack, rocketing pain up her arm, twisting up the muscles and the nerves and jarring the shoulder joint. Whatever it was reeled back, stumbling. The pressure of thoughts and dreams eased from her, letting go. Cool air flowed, the trees seemed to piece back together, the sky less bloodied.

A crackling noise sounded from somewhere to Eliza’s right, like the cocking of a gun. Followed shortly by it was the exploding boom of a gun, the acrid scent of gun powder rising, and the illusion slipped away completely. 

Eliza felt her eyes open and open and open again. She felt like she was swimming for the surface after diving too deep in a pool. 

She had gone swimming, with Emma, once forever again. The two did handstands under the water. Young bodies, late teens, maybe early twenties. Laughing and joking and nearly dumping Margaritas in the pool after Eliza hip-checked Emma. Laughter, chlorine, sunny days. Bikinis that were expensive but just too cute to pass up on. Clouds gathered, stormed, threatened them out of the beachside pool with a threat of lightning. 

The burst of light before her tore her from her thoughts, spilling her back into reality. Eliza felt a wet spray land on her face, flecks of something brittle splashing against her cheeks and forehead. She felt something else grasp her, warm broad hands, human. Nothing entered her mind. She looked frantically at what had grabbed her and saw the flash of white. She reeled back and landed another punch, feeling a snap followed by flowing warmth against her her knuckles.

“FUCK!” 

It was Gilbert. 

Other hands landed upon her, helping her stand. One hand placed a gritty towel against her face, wiping away whatever had landed there. Eliza’s chest rose and fell with staggered breaths. She looked about her, trying to gather her surroundings. 

The trees were in place. The sky clear and blue between the canopy the trees. The world normal, the world still. Erika was wiping her face and Basch held her steady. To her side, Roderich was holding another cloth to Gilbert’s face. Gilbert, his nose clearly broken, shot Eliza dirty glances. He grasped his nose and yanked, yelping in pain like an injured dog. His nose looked more normal, but more blood flowed from his nostrils, bloodying the cloth Roderich had placed beneath his nose. 

“God, Eliza. What the fuck?” Gilbert frowned at Eliza, but his voice held no anger. 

“We came for you but this, this thing.” Erika pointed down, “Was grabbing you. One second you were fine and the next we found you on the side of the path screaming yourself hoarse.” 

Eliza, her throat dry and cracked, swallowed hard. Erika handed her a bottle of water. She gulped it down, seeing Erika’s arms, both free of bruising, both perfectly fine. 

“Where were you? I went looking for you,” Eliza croaked. How hard had she been screaming? When did she scream? 

Erika blushed. “I… I need to go to the restroom.”

“I told you!” Gilbert rounded on her. 

Eliza frowned. “Then… But, but what happened? I thought I found you?”

Erika blushed harder. “Ah, no, no. Gilbert found me.” Her forehead down to her neck was painted bright red. “It wasn’t very nice.”

“I was told you find you,” Gilbert, exasperated, wheezed at them. “Eliza was worried you were abducted by cannibals.”  
“I was not.” Eliza said. She avoided looking at the ground. 

“Well, whatever. Basch and Roddy and I all went around to hunt you down. And I found you poppin’ a squat behind a tree. Just like I thought you would be.” 

Erika turned away, the tips of her ears pink. 

Eliza smiled despite herself, shuddering with laughter.

“What? Why are you laughing? What’s funny? Stop!” Gilbert held his hands a distance from Eliza, worried he’d get socked again. Eliza had no intention of doing so. She howled with laughter, clutching her abdomen.

Nothing was funny, that’s what was so funny. She had lost her mind and hallucinated. Maybe those plants were hallucinogenic? Maybe Eliza was high as a kite and didn’t realize it. It was ridiculous. And she had thought she was getting abducted by aliens just a moment before, pulled into the sky with a rainforest? It was ridiculous.

Eliza wiped her eyes, gazing at the ground. 

Her laughter died in her throat, molting into a sob. 

The thing was still there. Its head punctured with a bullet hole, lolled to the side, blood seeping into the wet ground. 

But it was real.

This thing, whatever it was, this killed Emma.

Gilbert watched Eliza’s expressions, watched her fall to pieces. He boldly grasped her arm, holding her steady along with Basch and Erika.

“I know. I believe it now.” He looked towards Roderich. Eliza stared half-heartedly at Gilbert, seeing the tattoo that poked from his shirt sleeve. The black outline of a complex designs, marks and dashes and dots, coming together to form some image covered by his shirt. Eliza wanted to see it, she had never seen it before. She wondered if it was important. 

“That makes it more necessary for us to get to the site.” Roderich said. He touched Eliza’s shoulder lightly. “We need to go, now. Get you to rest a bit.” 

“OK…” Eliza muttered, liking very much to rest. Hoping that she wouldn’t see that frail, dying dream state every time she shut her eyes. Hoping against hope, against reality. 

. . . 

“Ah, you made it.” The head researcher, as appointed by Yao, Dr. Lee said. “And you brought some samples? Excellent. We’ll send some out to the main facility. Please, stay and rest as long as you need.” He eyed Eliza, the wrinkles in his eyes disappearing as his smile receded. With a few short words to his teammates, he had Eliza set in her own tent and the falcon tubes collected from Roderich. Eliza was pulled away and set to rest, a bowl of hot food brought to her as she leaned against the metal cot. More rumbling outside the tent. She heard Dr. Lee speak quietly to Roderich, pointing out the rest of the path until they reached the next research site. Yao would meet them at one of these checkpoints, Eliza heard, and he would have them escorted back home. It was about two more weeks of hiking and traveling. It was only luck that landed their first site within a day’s walk from the city. But, this material was contaminated, Dr. Lee said sorrowfully. Them bringing it wasn’t necessary. He’d provide them with more tubes. What they needed was deeper in the forest, towards the center. There, they’d need to collect samples.

“Mr. Wang has a lot of trust for you,” Eliza heard Dr. Lee say, his voice humbled.

“I went on an expedition long ago with him.” Roderich responded, surprising Eliza. “My friends only agreed to go because it’s important to our friends.” 

“I see. Still, this is a massive undertaking and I am very honored to meet people who rank so high with Mr. Wang. He was our personal hero for so long. Until.. But that doesn’t matter. He rose back quickly enough in our small, and I apologize in saying this, but rather erudite society. He’s a very intelligent man.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Please, tell me again the path we must take?” Roderich and Dr. Lee’s voices trailed off. They must have begun walking in the direction of their path. 

The research site was a circular patch of cleared forest, cluttered with tents and one wood building. Inside that building important materials were kept. Everyone slept in the tents, rose to conduct their experiments and create colonies from samples brought to them. It was nice, but not a great place to stay. Eliza and her small group still had more hiking to do, it seemed. She lay down on the metal cot, feeling it rattle as she shifted. 

Eliza shifted in and out of sleep. The sky, which had already been a bruised purple when they arrived, settled further into starry night. As night encroached, she heard her tent flap open.

“Can I come in?”

Gilbert.

“Guess so.” Eliza sat up, pulling her feet close to her on the cot, allowing for Gilbert to sit on the edge of the bed. He sat down, elbows on his knees. A chain with a cross dangled between his arms, glinting in the light of kerosene lamps. He wore a tank top shirt, exposing the tattoo almost completely. It was a stop watch, resting upon a bed of flowers. Its face shattered, the hour and minute hand stuck in a single position for eternity. 

“I never noticed that before.” Eliza said, nodding at his tattoo.

Gilbert grinned, rubbing his arm. “Yeah, got it not too long ago.”

“Does it mean something important?” She noticed Gilbert had a bandaid-like bruise across his nose. His right eyes was slightly swollen. He would have a black eye, come morning. 

“Yeah.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Eliza shifted topics. 

“Sorry about that.”

“All good. I bet it felt awesome.”

“It did.” Eliza admitted, laughing quietly to herself. She felt drained. As if her soul had been put through the wringer and left to dry. She wanted to sleep, and hopefully to not dream. “We should go to bed, Gil. We have more walking to do tomorrow.”

Gilbert shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why us? Can’t they get their own people. It sounded fun at first and I had nothing better to do. Starting to seriously regret that decision.”

“Apparently Roderich went on an expedition with Yao before.”

“What? No way? Our Roddy? Our ninety year old man trapped in a… however old he is body? Did he tut around in a suit and play the violin while Yao did the actual hiking?”

“No, really. Roderich said it himself to Dr. Lee. A while ago I heard them talking.”

“No way…” Gilbert shook his head. He grasped the cross on his chain in his fist, enclosing it and raising it to his mouth. He rested his chin against his palm. “When did this all go to shit, ‘Liza?”

“Apparently when Francis was attacked.”

“Couldn’t have been that easy.” He muttered, turned to face outside of the tent, so Eliza couldn’t see his expression. “Yao had this thing set up real fast, didn’t he? Almost too fast. Only a month after everything. How could he do it that fast?”

“It’s likely this was another project he remodeled to fit this. Besides, that’s not something we should worry about. We have other things to be wary for. And with a new threat.” She swallowed, keeping her expression firm, “Well, we need to keep our heads straight.”

“But I want to know, now. You know? Like when you finish a really intense show and you just have to know what happens next, even if the show wasn’t that good and the main actress has the ugliest face?”

Eliza kicked Gilbert in the side. He recoiled, grinning. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. The actress with the weird nose. Nice tits though.” Eliza kicked him again, edging him off the bed. Gilbert scooted away. “‘Lizaaaa…”

“Don’t you ‘Lizaaa’ me, Gil.” 

“Don’t you Gil me, ‘Liz.”

Eliza smiled, pulling her legs back. “Go to sleep, Gilbert.”

Gilbert nodded, rising to his feet. He paused before he left, though.

“Eliza?”

“Yes?”

“When that thing held you, it wasn’t hurting you. But you were screaming and wriggling. Was something else going on? Was it poisoning you or something? You weren’t hurt, ‘cept for a few scrapes from falling before. So, what was it?”

Eliza shuddered at the memory. 

“Gil, I… I think it told me something.”

“Told you…?”

“Like, it implanted a thought into my brain. Something horrible. These things, I think they tried to communicate through me.”

“Was it painful? Did it hurt?”

“You couldn’t imagine it. It was like I was being burned alive.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll go to bed.” Gilbert said, holding the tent flaps open. People were still talking outside in the site, but much less than before. Most had gone to sleep but a weary few with work left to do. Gilbert’s muscles jumped in the lamplight, dancing and alive. 

Warm, and there.

“Don’t run into Erika going to the bathroom again, alright?” Eliza called after him.

Gilbert scoffed. “Yeah, sure, Ok. Make fun of me, will ya? I bet you won’t say a word about it to poor little Erika. That girl is not quite as cutesy as she appears, you know? I bet she’s really weird underneath all that cute and fluff and innocence. And niceness, don’t forget that. The nicest people are always so weird.” 

“Ok, I got it, go away and go to bed Gil.” 

“Go away and go to bed Gil.” He mocked in falsetto. “Ok, Mom.” 

He shut the tent flaps behind him, letting a ripple pass gently through the rest of the fabric, and leaving Eliza in the lamplit darkness, eyes shut, trying to avoid the dream state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the wait on this chapter. I must have re-written this one at least 5 times. I refuse to give you all a bad chapter, so I hope its worth the wait. Next few chapters should come out on a better schedule, I hope.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your feedback! It means the world, it really does.


	5. Alfred F Jones - Judgement

Earth - Present Day - London, At Night 

Alfred F Jones - Judgement

Rhythmic, thumping. A pulsing, a beat, a thundering. A cascade of music, rising, elevated to the chilled crimson skies. Light blinking on and off, piercing into the low-hanging clouds, dyeing them blue and gold and purple and white.  
It was, unmistakably, a party. 

Alfred stood by the reinforced windows, peering through the nighttime snowfall. It was a little better at night, with the sky dimmed to a dark, scab-red black. Yet, it still fell in uncanny flecks, plastering to the windows. Polluted weather fell upon the city, but some people outside were still partying. A few buildings away from the theatre, a demolished secondary school blasted music. Even from his distance, Alfred could see the people swarming like so many insects, crowding around the building and twisting their bodies, flowing like speckled waves. 

True to his word, Arthur had only arrived half an hour or so before. He nodded his greetings to Alfred and Kiku, his face strained with exhaustion. He had slipped off the armor and pulled on light blue hospital scrubs. Arthur, sleeping as often as he did in the reformed theatre, had his own closet somewhere in the upper floors. Possibly in the locker rooms once meant for actors and actresses. Arthur immediately checked on Arlene. She remained stable, unimproved. She spoke a handful of words to Arthur before settling back into sleep. 

Now, after examining her, Arthur approached from behind Alfred. 

“I didn’t know people partied that hard in ol’ England.” Alfred said, smiling at Arthur. 

Arthur furrowed his brows at him, not quite sure what to make of the comment. He peeled of the faux hazmat suit and set it aside on one of the many misplaced chairs. “Yes, those people party. They always do, every night for the past few weeks. They don’t cause anyone outside the building harm, so I don’t see any need to reproach them. Though, I worry others will be sucked in. It seems dangerous.”

Alfred nodded, leaning his hand against the window. The glass felt cool beneath his palm. Arthur plopped down on a seat behind him, stretching his legs out in front of him. Old blood stains dotted the front of his scrubs.“Although I appreciate you staying awake for me, Alfred, you must get to bed. You haven’t slept in a long time and it’s been a long day.”

“Hard to believe all of that happened today.” Alfred muttered, squinting at the fractured spine of Big Ben through the window. “Or I guess yesterday, it’s past midnight.”

“Sleep will help you cope with the stress. Don’t worry about your friend. Arlene is stable. She’ll be here when you wake in the morning.”

“I… I’m not sleepy. I don’t want to sleep.”

Arthur reclined further, half laying half sitting on the chair. He folded his arms before him. “I understand that. You must at least try.” Arthur yawned into his shoulder, craning his neck. “Likely, you’ll fall asleep soon as your head hits the pillow.” 

“Right. Hey, Arthur?”

“You sound like you did, long ago.” But, Arthur had already shut his eyes, mumbling sleepily to himself. His head nodded forwards. “You hated going to bed sometimes.” 

Alfred approached Arthur, hoisting him up easily. The smaller man stirred awake, leaning forwards in Alfred’s grasp, but too fatigued to truly fight. Alfred easily slipped him on to a more comfortable, longer couch. Arthur began to stand, but Alfred held him still with a palm against Arthur’s shoulder. “I am not to be coddled, young man.” Arthur argued, trying again to rise.

“You literally fell asleep talking to me. And, might I add, I am absolutely not a boring person at all.” 

Arthur frowned, but his eyelids drooped again.

“Arthur?” 

“Hmm…?”

“What did you mean, saying that party was dangerous?”

Arthur’s eyes shot open. “Don’t you dare think of going there. It is a suicidal cult party - really. A bunch of idiots get together and take drugs to try and wash away the pain of the current state of the world. That’s all it is. Don’t let the flashing lights fool you, Alfred. You are forbidden from going there.” 

Alfred frowned. “Why don’t you stop it?”

“You cannot help those who are beyond helping themselves, who have given up everything. They’re coping the way they can. It is far from ideal, but it’s what they have.” Arthur yawned again. His eyes watered, but his brows were set. He would stay awake until Alfred passed out from exhaustion if that’s what it took. “Also never pick me up again.” Arthur rose to his feet. “We are going to the bedroom. Go. March!” He pointed.

Alfred followed, almost jerked forwards by a gut reflex. He went with Arthur to their bedroom, where Yao was already asleep on his cot. Kiku was awake, but only just so. His glasses were off, set on top of the book he had been reading before bed. Kiku sat at the edge of the cot, watchingA Alfred and Arthur traipse in. 

“Did we wake you, Kiku?” Arthur asked gently, voice low to hopefully not disturb Yao.

“Well, mostly Alfred.” Kiku smiled. Alfred narrowed his eyes at Kiku. “No, I couldn’t sleep well. I wanted you here.” Kiku said, looking at Alfred.

“I was not gonna do anything stupid,” Alfred said. “Not more stupid than usual.”

“He’s obsessed with something completely out of his control.” Arthur said, shooting the last bit directly at Alfred, who only turned away, peeling his clothing off at his bedside. “And it is none of anyone’s business right now. Everyone, sleep. Or I will lock these doors and strap you to your beds.” Arthur moved to the other side of the room, already half out of his scrubs. As the shirt pulled off, Alfred caught a glimpse of Arthur’s back. A long, gnarled, hard scar crept from the slope of one hip to the middle of his back, stopping short of the spine in a starburst pattern. Alfred glanced at Yao, whose back was turned to him as well, and noticed another hard knot of scars on that man’s shoulder, at the top, in the slope of the neck. 

“Your back…” Alfred said, asking softly.

Arthur shut the lights off, evidently not hearing Alfred. The bedsheets rustled as he slid in, muttering a curt good night to all. Alfred moved over to Kiku’s bed, crouching down til he was eye-to-eye with him. He leaned forwards. He felt Kiku’s breath close to him, tickling his nose and cheek. Kiku smelled sweet, of honey and tea. Where did Kiku even find tea? Alfred wondered, at the same time wishing he’d never have to move any further from Kiku than this. These feelings he tucked in a small box in his heart and whispered, “Why do they both have scars like that?”

“Yao’s is from an accident. He said the research facility of his had some sort of catastrophe. I don’t know about Arthur.” Kiku whispered back, leaning closed. Alfred felt his skin prickle with heat. 

“I’m gonna go to bed, I think.” Alfred said, standing up, breaking the distance between them. “Good night.”

“Good night, Alfred.” Kiku said. “And please, don’t do anything stupid. But if you do, tell me.”

Alfred wordlessly crawled into bed.

And waited until everyone’s breathing turned into that of rhythmic sleep. 

Once he was the last one awake, his eyes still burning wide and his mind buzzing, hardly sleepy at all, he raised himself as quietly as he could from the bed. He figured Arthur assumed Alfred was set to stop this party, to march in and proclaim there was so much more to live for. That was not quite Alfred’s plan. He dressed in the suit he typically wore beneath his battle armor - tough fabric with enough give to feel comfortable, but far from the beauty and dexterity of Kiku’s. Over top of it he layered streets cloths - jeans and a sweater, patches stitched on its arms and back of various flags. 

No, Alfred wasn’t going to stop them. But he didn’t want to go party, either. He wanted to investigate. Some itching, painful curiosity sprawled from somewhere deep within, surprising him with its intensity.

When Alfred studied in University, in his final years while deciding how else to proceed with his life - before life decided for him - he partied. He outed with his roommate at the time, attending college frat parties, regular parties, house parties. Anything that was exciting, anything that dimmed the imminent adulthood that lurked around the corner, leering with responsibility. A word Alfred thought was overused, abused, broken down to its literal parts too much to hold any meaning. At least, for him. 

Alfred and his small group, three men and two women, attended one of the frat house parties. Banners blaring the school’s insignia draped over the walls, the curtains, and over bodies, used as a makeshift blanket. Beer bottles lined the tables, surrounding on solo cups filled with their contents, ping pong balls at the ready. It was normal, average, drunk-college-kid stuff. Alfred helped himself to a French 75 and a beer or two, letting he warm buzz take over his mind, numbing. He maneuvered around the room, eyeballing people here and there. No one particularly attractive stood out. No one had for some time, not since Alfred laid his eyes on _him_. No matter. Alfred would buzz up, maybe even get wasted, and go home to sleep it off before his midterm the next day. 

As Alfred considered taking more nachos from a plate, the lights dimmed in the house. Music began a subterranean thump. Bump bump bump, the sound of a bass humming with electricity. The lights flickered, pulsing like an LED heartbeat. Alfred put his drink down, watching as the party seemed to rise up like a zombie. An otherwise drunken get together was becoming different, molting. 

Arms latched around Alfred, tugging him back to the party table, inviting him. 

“Just a bump.”

“Seriously, it’s the best thing ever.” 

Someone, a girl, splashed a pink drink on Alfred’s bomber jacket. He yanked away from the bumbling apologies, turning to see what exactly was the best thing ever. It couldn’t be anything good. Alfred’s roommate held a baggie of white powder, beaming at him. Strumming fingers against their sides, bravado rising.

Deep inside Alfred’s mind, a childhood memory lurking and creeping and pierced forth. He imagined Arthur talking to him, mentioning drugs like a diligent parent would. 

Freeze your brains up, could kill you. He said, matter of factly. Say No to Drugs was popular around then. Alfred had asked. Arthur, physician, exhausted, ran through his banter.

Not worth it.

Alfred imagined the delicate tendrils of nerve fibers sprawled in his brain. Shot with cold, frozen, shattering like fragile winter buds. Dooming him, crushing him from with, maybe killing him.

Alfred, 12 years old, went stiff with fear. Arthur, who had given that speech possible ten times alone in the past week, comforted Alfred with a pat on his shoulder. “It won’t hurt you if you don’t do it.”

Now, Alfred, nearly 10 years later, was confronted with it. He watched his friends delve in, enjoying, forgetting, becoming something bigger than themselves. His mouth itched to give that speech. He wanted to tell them all the dangers he could think off. 

But they had grown bored of him. His excitement was nil, they sensed it, and moved on. Not wanting to waste their good time, they bobbed to the beat of the music as they trotted away. Seeking other joyrides. 

Alfred stood stock still. His jacket was sticky from the drink and he wanted nothing more than to go home. As he did, he pondered that memory, trying to dissect it. Warm early-summer air greeted him as he left the pulsating, living party. Silence met him on his walk back to his room, his hands deep in his pockets. He could remember Arthur’s face clearly, and Matthew’s, and Francis. The stars were polluted with light, only a freckle hear and there dotted the night sky. But it was clear, otherwise, the dark volumes of space above. He could see it. 

A few months later he’d receive a message from Arthur, inviting him to London for a meeting. Alfred, graduated, wondered if it was a job opportunity. For a heartbeat, he did not even remember Arthur’s name.

Now, what felt like a hundred years later, Alfred stood wearing a mask watching the sky crumble. He stepped outside of the theatre, breathing shallowly. Ever since world’s end, the outside had smelt of sulphur. Eggy and noxious, giving him a tense headache that clutched at the back of his neck. Alfred walked past the disinfection stations - more or less tents that smelled sharply of some chemical, and bleach. Inside was his battle regalia, likely clean now, but stored away. No one but him could open it, or move it. He wasn’t worried about thievery. Nevertheless, he had a small pistol tucked under his sweat, latched on to his belt with a small loop. Alfred had heard rumors of gangs going berserk, mindsets clashing, the world was over so fighting was a necessity. Despite everyone’s best efforts, otherwise.

Alfred past the streets and their uneven steps, moving silent as the snow fell. Somewhere there was rustling, a snap, and a burst of flame. Warmth leaked from his side, warming hands and faces. Followed by it was a smell of cooking meat. Alfred shuddered to think where it came from. He saw no one as he walked, save for a few rats poking their eyes from corners. A grocer lay ransacked along the way. Boxes and plastic bags poured out of the front door, entrails leaking. It smelled like rotting food.

The secondary school now party club was a fifteen minute walk from the theatre, if that. He could feel the buzzing in the soles of his feet well before he arrived. Red and yellow and green light burst through the windows, flashing and changing to the beat of some music. Alfred couldn’t hear anything distinctly, other than the pounding in his ears. At the front of the school, a seven-pointed star dripped wet spray paint to the concrete ground. The basketball court to the side crawled with similar graffiti. Proclamations, warnings, SATAN IS HERE, WHERE R U?

Alfred patted the pistol at his side, checking. 

Maybe he shouldn’t go in. It was a lost cause, he couldn’t do anything. And if he went in, he posed a risk to himself. He was the strongest fighter, in terms of sheer brute force, of the remainder of the their team. Kiku could fight better than him, but when it came to taking blows, it had to be Alfred. His military, stationed in the stars overhead, held the most dangerous weapons: the battle regalia. 

Alfred hesitated too long. Doors burst open and a group of people poured out. Inside, many many more people danced, thrusted, moved, seethed. Music painting them along with the light. The group of people, some men and women, some looking as young as teenagers, their throats slit. The open mouths of their wounds spilled lifeblood, pooling beneath their heads in glittering puddles. Behind them were two people, grinning and hobbled. Their bodies swayed. They howled in euphoria, ignoring or maybe not seeing Alfred. The light behind them dimmed, then turned off, liquid darkness covering them.

The music stopped, too. A voice, amplified by speakers, rang out.

“Come, sweet death.”

An echoing chorus. _COME! Sweet death._

“We have walked along this path for so long. It’s time to bring London down.”

Cheers. The voice, distorted by the quality of the speakers and the intonations, came from somewhere on the top floor.

“Each night, we sacrificed our own. The willing come and bleed in my hands. The valley of death before them, welcome and waiting. Each night we feast upon the pleasures left for us upon this earth. Each night, we give and we take. It is balance, it is equal.” Howls, like wild dogs, resounded from the crowd. Alfred slipped behind a stone wall that surrounded the school, his back pressed against it and his head craned to hear more. Take London down? This wasn’t good. Did Arthur know?

“We have been abandoned. Those who helped us long ago are now gone. Our society is crumbling, has crumbled, and broken. The threads that kept us together are now severed. We are strays. But, we must make do.” A pause, for dramatic affect. The crowd practically held its breath. “Is what we have believed. It’s time to bring London down!”

Pounding on the walls and doors, thundering foot steps.

“The blood sky won’t hold us much longer.”

Alfred turned, feeling more pounding. Whatever they were planning to do, it was highly dangerous and needed to be stopped immediately. “Shit.” Alfred, patting his pocket again, ran back to the theatre. In his mind, the neck wounds bled and bled and bled. 

“Wake up!” Alfred cried out, slamming on the lights. Arthur, Yao, and Kiku rose, already on their feet. “Something’s going on.”

“Did you go out?” Arthur rounded on him.

“Yes, and those people keep saying ‘bring London down’. There’s no way that’s anything good. You know a mob, a mob mentality? It has to be some sort of rampage through the city.”

Yao and Kiku had already pulled their clothes on. Kiku in his slender suit, Yao in loose pants and shirt. Arthur had the twined ball of armor in his hands, but wasn’t moving. Alfred pulled his hood and pants off in a single motion, hopping on one foot as the jeans caught. He stared at Arthur, annoyance rising. “Come on, man. We can’t let things get too far when we know something’s wrong. Not again.” Alfred regretted the words soon as they left his mouth. It was unfair to blame any of this on Arthur. Arthur had only picked up the lead role out of necessity. Not of ego. 

Arthur stood, wrapping the beads around his body, neglecting any clothes other than the sweats and shirt he wore. The prisms glittered. “Then let’s go.” 

They reached halfway towards the school, stopping short. Their breathing came muffled through their masks. Already, a surge of people had left, tearing through the streets, blazing fires raised above their heads. “Bring London down!” They screamed, voices after another, rippling and uneven, but unified nonetheless. The group was smaller than Alfred expected, but still an impressive force. 

“Stop!” Yao cried out, his voice carrying even over theirs. He stood before them, weaponless and still. The wind rippled through his flowing clothing, snow catching and staining where it felt, pinpricks of rust. 

The crowd continued to push forwards. A couple in the front, a man and the woman, approached Yao. The man, dirty, unshaven, looked Yao up and down. “Who’re you to say stop? There’s nothing to stop. This is all that’s left.”

“Get out of our way,” The woman said. Her hair was dreaded from lack of washing. Ratty blonde knots fell against her shoulders, stained with soot and other, darker splotches. 

“Call this whole thing off.” Yao said, waving his hand dismissively at them. “You have food. You have shelter. The world isn’t what it once was, but it’s livable.” 

The man spat at Yao’s feet, missing his shoes. Yao looked at the black phlegm, nearly rolling his eyes. “Call it off. I’m not arguing with you. I’m not fighting you, right now.”

The man scoffed, staggering. He was clearly drunk. “We’re bringing London down, no matter what you bloody say.”

The woman came up to shove Yao, hands outstretched. Red marks shun on her palms. Yao caught both her wrists, pushing her down before she even stepped closer to him. She crouched before him, struggling as her arm twisted backwards. Nothing would break so long as she didn’t force it. Yao held her steady with with hand, watching the man.

The man scowled. “Let her go.” 

“Break this off.” Yao let go. The woman rose unsteadily to her feet, staring at Yao in shock. She rubbed her affected limb, stepping back towards the man. The crowd behind them had emerged, pushing closer as Yao spoke to the others. Arthur, Kiku, and Alfred staggered out, creating a three person barrier across the narrow street. Alfred had considered bringing his regalia. These were only people. He wasn’t fighting space monsters, here. At least, he hoped this was a mob mindset of purely human force. Not something external. Please, let it just be crazy people, he thought. 

Arthur stepped closer to the incoming crowd, raising his hands in defense. The armor, which Alfred had hardly seen used, was hardly visible save for a few scattered constellations of light. “Please, listen. Go back to your party. Have fun. Don’t bring the rest of the city and its innocent people into your madness.”

“We don’t have to go back to any party, old man,” Another man from the crowd said, stepping forwards and fast towards Arthur. “The party is here.” 

He shoved both hands flat against Arthur’s chest. He recoiled instantly, pulling his hands back. Slashes gaped on his open palms. He yelped in pain. The flesh of his palms began to bubble. Alfred looked at Arthur in horror. Arthur’s expression gave nothing away. He stepped back, turning towards the crowd.

“We don’t want to hurt you. Please, leave.”

But the mentality had shattered, the mob burst, surging towards their small group. Alfred winced, not wanting to hurt anyone. If he had tasers, it would be easier. Even some sort of noxious gas would work better. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. People massed, fish against a slim net, shoving forwards. The blazing fires bobbed in the air, catching on dangling banners and flags. Lighting the city on fire.

More and more people tried Arthur. He stood on the opposite side of the street from Alfred, Kiku between them. Arthur was smaller, they hedged their bets in an animal mindset. Shoves turned to screams turned to lacerations. Flesh bubbled upon contact, screams echoed in the snowy night. Arthur, his face set, let go of a rope of armor, letting it slide from his arm. Handling it like a whip, he snapped the prisms forwards, catching a swarming group, cutting across three bodies. They fell immediately, crying in pain and in anger. Most of the people were painted, like the lady with the ratty hair, either on their hands or faces. Red marks, circles and stars and words. Alfred wondered where their leader was. They should have talked to him first. He seemed to have a reign on the helpless and lost.

“There was a leader,” Alfred said as much, but didn’t get very far before hands grasped his arm. He turned, slamming his body against the brick wall to his side. The man—no, boy—who had grabbed him crumpled against the wall, sliding down. His face was plastered with bright red words.

BRING EM DOWN

Kiku had his blade out, the one he used to pierce the beast in the hull with. He held it to his side, point angled out. He slammed the broad, dull side against those who came to attack him, dropping them. He didn’t draw blood, but managed to hit in such a way that the people fell, grabbing their necks and shoulders, writhing with pain. Those he fell, though, began to rise soon after. Kiku, standing stock still, thwacked them again easily, his eyes hardly on them. 

Kiku was watching Alfred, his eyebrows raised in question. Alfred had body checked another person trying to wiggle past him.

Alfred shook his head. They couldn’t keep doing this. They had to stop, they had to. How many of them would get hurt and give up? How many before the bloodlust died down? Alfred kicked another man in the shin and felt a sickening crack. 

In front of them, Yao moved ahead, pushing through the crowd as it pushed back. A needle through cloth, he managed forwards, hitting anyone who approached with deft, sharp movements. He kept going, aiming for the center. He said something Alfred couldn’t hear, resulting in an uproar of anger. Yao must have heard Alfred talk about a leader. He hoped he was going in for it. 

A gunshot sounded and Alfred felt a the heat of a bullet miss him. He wheeled around, seeking for the person who shot him. It was one of the teenagers on the ground, black hair matted to his forehead. His pale face perspired, greasy in the night-bright of snow. That had picked up pace, too, falling in whirling gusts. Cutting wind began to push along with the crowd, as if favoring them. Alfred leaned down towards the kid, whose hand trembled against the small firearm. A thumb, dirty nails, reached to pull back the safety. Before he could, Alfred landed a blow to the kid’s wrist, twisting it, and grasping the firearm for himself. He unloaded it and tossed the empty shell away, the ammo slid into his pocket. The kid, hardly realizing what happened, began to scoot back. His face screamed at Alfred.

BRING EM DOWN

The crowd thinned by now. Many of which were on the ground. Before Arthur a group clutched their burning body. No more flesh bubbled, it seemed, but their faces were plastered with pain. Alfred could not see Arthur’s expression. Behind them, the remaining dozen or so of people were stilled, seeing their fallen friends squirm on the ground. As far as Alfred could tell, with relief, no one was killed. A couple injured, no one seriously harmed. They had made it through a fight with zero casualties, it seemed.

Another gunshot thundered. Alfred felt a sting in his side, cutting through his hip. It missed his body, but grazed his flesh, ripping through the fabric of his uniform. Confused, Alfred looked down at the kid he disarmed. The kid had crept away, terrified, and empty handed. Alfred turned.

The first man, the dirty and drunk one, had a pistol aimed at Alfred. Alfred patted down his sides again, feeling an empty holster at his hip. When did he get it? During the initial surge? 

Alfred started towards the man, beginning to speak. His eyes were frantic, wild, enraged. 

“You don’t get it!” He yelled, spittle spraying against his knotted beard. “Look at you! You can survive. I can’t. We can’t. We have to do this. There’s nothing left.”

“Who’s guiding you? Who’s your leader?” Alfred said.

“Leader…?” The man said. His eyes widened. “You mean… No. Back the fuck off our I’ll shoot you again.” 

“Hey, listen, we can help.” Alfred said, hands up, approaching. The man cocked the safety back and his fingers contracted on the trigger. 

No gunshot.

Alfred dropped his hands, watching as the man twisted and dropped to the ground. The gun dropped, skidding from his hands against the uneven road. Around his neck, prisms glimmered. He choked, the skin on his neck rising in angry, red welts. Arthur tugged, bringing him down. Kiku’s blade came down in a metallic blur, just behind Alfred’s head. Alfred turned, face-to-face with the kid. His face screaming

BRING EM DOWN

Hair pressed against the words, distorting them

B G EM DOW 

Looking through bars, the kid trembled and dropped. Half his torso to Alfred’s left, the other half to his right. Kiku had turned away, flicking his blade clean. “You didn’t have to kill him…” Alfred breathed. Kiku looked back at him, eyes grim through the visor. 

“He would have killed you.”

“He’s just a kid.” Alfred said, his voice small. But Kiku had already turned away, running forwards towards Yao. 

Yao had found their ring leader. Their martyr.

A girl, no more than a teenager, writhed in Yao’s grasp. She kicked and twisted, spitting like a cat. Her hair, poorly bleached, flew against her face in the wind. Yao’s hold was steadfast as he moved her forwards, holding her before them.

Arthur regarded her coolly. “Call this off, dear.”

She looked at him. Recognition flickered across her face, then shame, then anger. All at once, all too fast. She reared her head at him. She was dressed in a limp black dress, stained with words now unreadable. The wind tore through again. The fighting had ceased for now. The scared people receded, some edging in closer to the girl, some turning back.

“Call this off.” Arthur repeated.

“We’ll bring you all down. You abandoned us.” She growled at him, her muscles tightening as she tried to pull away from Yao again. Yao let her go, letting her stumble and fall forwards at Arthur’s feet.

“I know. We’re trying our best. To put it all together again.” 

She shifted to her knees.

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone and everything that did matter is gone.” 

“You didn’t deserve this. No one did.” Arthur kneeled down before her. “I remember you, dear.”

She moved back slightly. “I remember helping you. You were lonely that night, weren’t you? You just needed someone to talk to.”

“You’re that doctor. I know.” She turned her face. Her cheek muscles contracted.

“I must say, I am quite impressed that you gathered so many people.”

She shrugged. “Everyone is miserable. It’s easy.”

“And, just like that, it’ll be easy to rekindle hope.”

“That’s pathetic.” 

Arthur shrugged. “You commanded them. Go, do it again.” His voice was soft, soft as freshly fallen, clean snow. Soft as gauze, swathing a wound. 

“She gave up!” Someone screamed from behind them. The girl perked her head up, turning. 

“Mark, stop.” She said, her voice low. 

That’s how she did it! Alfred thought, staggered from their conversation, reeling back to a memory from earlier. When the voice had come through the speakers, it was different than a young woman’s voice, and not only distorted by static. She could preform a vocal fry, channeling noises from deep in her abdomen, lowering the pitch: demonic. 

A man pushed forwards, stepping over the wounded and pushing past the scared. His face was different. His was not scared. His was enraged, upset, damaged. A long scar cut across his forehead to his mouth, catching an eye in the process. Yao stared at it, his hands raised at his sides, ready to strike if he got too close.

“We’ll do it again, we all need to be ready.” The woman said again, rising to her feet. Her black dress flapped in the wind, creating heavy thudding sounds as it caught against itself. “Back off, for now!” She intoned.

No one stirred. Those afraid did not move. Those at a standstill only approached closer. The man she had called Mark held a hatchet. The small, curved blade poised at an angle by his side, ready to strike. Arthur recoiled his armor from the man on the ground, now lolled and limp. Mark aimed and swung. Arthur shot his armor to the left of Yao, where he predicted the man would fall.

But he wasn’t there—

He was falling on the woman, hatchet swinging. 

It caught in her shoulder, sloping to her neck, digging and breaking flesh—

The blade stopped moving, but remained where it was—

A pair of arms unattached. A torso falling. Screaming in pain, high and low, woman and man. The young woman’s arterial blood drenched her clothing in a cascade, seeping from the wound. Arthur rounded on her, grasping her head and holding the hatchet in place. Besides him, the man lay, arms cut clean off by the swipe of Kiku’s blade, one again sacrificing, once again dripping blood and humanity, once again in protection. Kiku seen the man, Mark, change direction suddenly, and he had taken the swing. 

Alfred stumbled down, landing harshly on his knees as he crouched by Arthur.

“You can fix her, right? You can?”

Arthur shook his head, feeling the woman gasp in his hands. Feeling her slip further and further away. The snow continued to fall, the wind dying down and picking up, waxing and waning in strength. Alfred glanced from the woman to Kiku. He wondered why he wasn’t revulsed. He felt he wasn’t supposed to see so much bloodshed in a single lifetime. Tears tracked down Kiku’s face, turned blue and purple by his visor. 

Arthur’s voice broke and trembled as he spoke, “Nothing can fix this.” 

Alfred felt Arthur meant more than just the wounded and dying woman.

The snow continued to fall. The wretched, miserable snow. The crowd had broken apart, the bloodlust gone. Soon even the wound moved away. In that time, they all stayed. The stayed with the girl until there was nothing more. Only a few minutes, passing like endless hours. They watched and they waited, the tears drying and falling anew on Arthur's cheeks.

Alfred had nothing to stay. He stared at his hands, and wondered why he couldn't do more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all,
> 
> These next few chapters are going to be rather longer than the previous ones. There will more likely be a delay in my upload schedule, but I will do my best to get stuff up in a timely manner. 
> 
> Also -- totally irrelevant side note (yeah, right) -- HetaOni is canon in this world. Not that that fact matters much, save for maybe a few details here and there. If you are unfamiliar with this excellent and, last I checked, unfinished series, I highly recommend it. Especially if you are like me and enjoy a good heart break.


	6. Four - Break of Dawn

Earth - Long Before the Fall - The Suburbs 

Four Seasons Until the Break of Dawn

_ Spring - Francis Bonnefoy  _

Alarms blared, threefold across the house, ringing like the apocalypse. Francis groaned, grasping the waist close to him, pulling close. He set his nose against messy blond hair, breathing deeply a scent of sleep and lavender. In his arms, Arthur wriggled, attempting to pry loose of the sleepy grasp. “We must get up.”

“No, we mustn’t.” Francis responded, tightening his grasp around Arthur’s midsection, holding tight and close. He felt softness at his abdomen. Rising with need.

“We must.” Arthur said, jerking free. 

He slid off the bed, stretching until his shoulders and back popped. Francis watched him blearily. Arthur clicked off their alarm. Around the same time, the other two alarms were muted. Arthur yawned, the edges of his body obscured by the early morning light. Francis wanted anything but to get out of bed. He felt the weight of sleep and warmth drag him in, deeper and deeper into the folds of the bed. He pulled a blanket back over his head. It yanked away from him, fluttering a cool breeze down Francis’ back. His nude upper half trembled in cold. His fuzzy pajamas were slightly less cozy.

“How many more days of this?” Francis said, pouting at Arthur. Arthur folded aside the blanket he had pulled, watching Francis force himself to wake up. 

“They’re last week is next week. They go on summer break and then we are free of these early mornings. Well, you are.” Arthur paused, slipping on a shirt. “Mostly. Depends how early they come up with news methods to torture us with.”

Francis agreed, yawning widely. 

“Then it’s the summer and us.” Francis said. 

“Summer and you, my love.” Arthur said, coming close and pressing a kiss to Francis’ scruffy chin. Francis grinned at him, roping his arms around Arthur’s shoulders. He pulled him down back on the mess of blankets and pillows. Arthur squirmed, laughing as Francis’ scruff tickled his neck. “Absolutely not!” Arthur breather, wheezing with laugher. Francis continued to tickle and hold him still.

“No free time for us when they’re out of school.” Francis whispered, pushing his large toe into the waistline of Arthur’s pajama bottoms. 

“It’s not too late to send them to summer ca— I said ABSOLUTELY not!” Arthur yelped as Francis kicked down hard as he could, pajama bottom with it. Arthur, down to a shirt and briefs, struggled once more in Francis’ grasp.

“They’re big boys. They can figure out how to make breakfast. They’d do it better than you would, anyway.”

“An English breakfast is a perfectly fine meal.” Arthur said into Francis’ chest. “And it’s my week to give them their lunches.”

“Peanut butter sandwiches are not lunch.”

“Yeah, well, bully that. Doesn’t matter until next week. Turn our sons into gourmets while you’re at teaching them the French, _Oh hon hon_.” Arthur mocked him, accentuating the last bit as hard as he could while Francis squeezed him with another hug. Francis leaned closer, crushing Arthur against his chest with protests from the crushed. 

“You know, I am also a gourmet,” Francis whispered, “In more ways than one.” 

He could feel Arthur’s scowl against his chest. Arthur wriggled like a worm on a hook. Before Francis could explain just how heightened his tastes were, voices called outside in the hall.

“Dad!” That would be Alfred, sounding impatient. He was at the age his voice squeaked more often than not. He compensated poorly by trying to sound grungy.

“Papa?” Matthew said. 

Sweet as a cherub, Francis thought. He hoped Matthew’s voice would never drop. “Coming my little cabbages!” Francis said. He rolled off the bed, leaving Arthur laying on his back like a moored turtle. Arthur scrambled after him.

“Alfred, you left your math homework on the counter. Go get it before you forget.”

Alfred groaned in response. Foot steps marched away. Matthew never forgot his homework anywhere. In fact, Francis had never even see Matthew work on something resembling homework. But, Matthew had excellent grades in all his classes. Quiet, polite, smart. Against brash, kind, quick witted. 

“I love our kids.” Francis said.

Arthur had his pants back on, along with his dignity, as he swung open the door. Matthew was dressed and stood ready in the hall, holding his backpack at his side. He smiled at Francis and Arthur.

“Is it Dad’s turn to cook, or is it Papa?” Matthew said, an eyebrow quirked. His eyes looked bug-like beneath his glasses. He would be twelve in two more months. His face almost fell when he heard the response. He covered it up best he could, “I love peanut butter.” He traipsed off before Arthur could communicate to the sarcasm he heard plenty clear in the younger son’s voice.

Francis loved his kids.

_ Summer - Alfred Jones _

  
For Alfred’s seventeenth birthday, he really, really wanted to go to the comic store. Alfred didn’t tell a soul outside of his family, for fear of harassment or judgement. When he went, he expected to find other dorky, maybe pudgy, maybe greasy kids milling around. Alfred did not expect to see what he did. 

In the corner, near the manga section, was _him_. Alfred stopped dead, his hands cold. At his side, Arthur seemed annoyed. “You’ve been in here before, please do go on.”

Alfred nodded wordlessly, perusing the isles of card games, comic books, and steadily approaching the manga section. As he did so, he saw Arthur pull up a book of his own and relax in one of the many recliners provided for patrons. Alfred gathered that Arthur expected him to take some time. Well, that was perfect. 

He stood as close as he dared to the stranger, eyeing several of the manga lined up on the shelf. The biggest thing was Fist of the Northstar. The bulky, glowering man stared out from the pages. Massive eyebrows furrowed. Francis had a soft spot for Japanese manga, taking Alfred anytime he asked. Arthur tolerated it, but Alfred would be damned if he didn’t catch Arthur leaving through Marvel comics. 

Alfred glanced to his side, his heart pounding.

Next to him stood another boy Alfred had never seen before. Someone that didn’t go to Alfred’s school. He would have noticed. Standing just below Alfred’s shoulder, smooth black hair tilted down with his chin, eyes intent on reading. High waisted jeans, shirt tucked in and puffed up at the sides. The ends of the jeans rolled up, exposing white underbelly. Tennis shoes. A school bag slung across the shoulder. Pale, tender flesh. A soft and pink mouth, smoothness of a seashell. Alfred wanted ever detail. He wanted to eat with his eyes, detailing, folding the details into his brain. Alfred felt his body heat rise, his heart feasting. 

“Any good?” Alfred asked, his voice breaking exactly when he didn’t want it to. 

The boy was startled, slapping the book shut as he looked up, seeing Alfred. Alfred wondered if the boy expected one of the greasy, larger patrons to have approached him. Alfred didn’t think himself too handsome, but he didn’t pretend people ignored him. A strong chin, blue eyes, wheat-blond hair did that. Plus, Alfred was pretty fit. 

All except for the fact he wore glasses. Dainty wireframes that perched on his nose. And, hitting a home-run, the boy had glasses too. Blocky black-framed lenses, cropped the side of the boy’s face like a photograph scooted to the side. They refracted and reflected a look of amusement. He held up the book, showing a cover of massive meaty heroes posed for battle. “It’s excellent. I would recommend it.” He smiled at Alfred.

Alfred felt he was just about to die. His heart throbbed in his neck, chest, and arms. Maybe elsewhere too. He felt his face flush. If he had a clear complexion and no glasses, maybe Alfred’s good looks would be truly killer. He hoped this boy didn’t mind. 

He furrowed his brows together, still keeping a polite smile. Alfred realized he had stopped talking.

“Um, yeah, cool. I’ll look into it, uh…? 

“Absolutely d—,” 

“_Aiyah _you’ve been here for how long?” 

The boy sighed, turning towards the one who called him. The stranger spared Alfred a glance, looked back at the boy, and muttered something in a language Alfred did not understand. The boy shot Alfred a look of half-bemusement half-annoyance. “I’ll see you ‘round!” Alfred said, raising a hand in goodbye. 

The boy had already left, but raised a hand, his back turned. 

Alfred felt the lines from a poem he heard long ago rise in his mind. Unforgotten. Meant for this day. 

_“Hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails/I want to eat your skin like a whole almond”_

_ Fall - Arthur Kirkland _

At last, he was home alone. 

Arthur bit into left over gratin - potatoes and mushrooms in creamy sauce - Francis had made before he left to do whatever he did when Arthur needed some alone time. He had paperwork to do. Loads and loads of it. Piled in innocent piles, sitting like geese. He eyed them in disdain from his position at the kitchen counter. Still, even those did not upset him as much as they usually did. Arthur was elated.

Not one, not a single patient, had coded on him in the past two weeks. It was rare, special, and dear to him. A small gem mined from the burdens of his labour. Arthur felt rejuvenated, ready to celebrate. He wished the rest of his working life would go like this. On and on. 

However, that was not how the world was. All things shrivel and fall. Some with beauty, some without. Arthur reminded himself, over and over. Yet, he could not help but feel gratified when his efforts, every single one, made an impact for the better. This overshadowed even the progress his research work was heading towards. Breakthroughs, newly found microscopic evidence, was not quite as elating as this. This, this he could feel and see and touch. The microorganisms he could only vaguely see, and mostly after they had already been treated. So what if he found something that could reveal more to the human race? It was all hypothesis anyway. What did matter were his patients, his people, their families, their lives. Stories spun and woven, interacting with so many around them. A loss was not a single loss but typically a calamity, the falling of all the pieces. 

These two weeks, Arthur had picked up all the pieces. Arthur had sutured, stapled, and cauterized the bits together. A Good Doctor - a real life Good Doctor. 

Good enough, maybe, to hold the beating heart of the world in his palms. At least, his little palmful of an entire world. If he could keep his family safe, all else was a moot point. 

All was well, Arthur thought dreamily, carefully. He took another bite. Oh, yes, all was well. He munched happily, waiting for his family to get home. 

_ Winter - Matthew Williams _

Matthew lay across his desk, holding a crumpled paper in his hand. Snow fell softly outside his window. He wept, tears big as the universe slipping down his cheeks. He had turned twelve that summer. He felt he was old enough to understand love. And yet, here he was. A doodled heart with two names pinned inside, tossed back in his face. Matthew pulled the paper closer to him, placing it against his own heart. Hoping he could reabsorb the love he lost, setting the shattered pieces back in place. 

Matthew screwed his eyes shut. He wished he didn’t have to be in stupid “honors” classes. That he didn’t have to be placed in higher grades because he did well on tests. Half the time, Matthew felt like he didn’t belong in these classes. All those bigger kids looking down at him. He was stuck with these kids. How was it his fault he’d fallen in love with one of them? Matthew slammed his fist against the desk, crunching the paper. 

Soft rapping at his door jarred Matthew suddenly. He sat up straight, wiping his eyes, trying to smooth out the puffiness with his fingers. He sat at his desk, covered in a blanket and the warm glove of his desk lamp.

“Yes?”

The door swung open, Francis’ apologetic face poking in. “Mind if I come in?”

“That’s fine,” Matthew said, spinning on his desk chair to face Francis. Francis sat down at the edge of his bed, a warm cup of coffee in his hands. The smell rose and clouded the room, sticking to the walls and ceiling.

Francis nodded out the window. “It’s snowing. First time this season.”

Matthew said nothing, staring at his hands. The coffee smelled bitter, he couldn’t imagine how Francis drank it and Arthur worshipped it.

“It’ll probably melt in the morning. The grass is still green beneath it and the trees haven’t lost all their leaves.”

“Yes, papa.”

“Do you think the world will forget it ever happened, that snow?”

“What?”

“Do you think, once it melts, it’ll be like it never happened?”

“Well, yeah. If it doesn’t snow again. That’s a weird question.”

“Matthew, does the earth forget this first snow? What does snow become when it melts?”

Matthew refrained from rolling his eyes. “Water.”

“Yes, what needs water?”

“Plants. Papa, what are you trying to say? I know this stuff. It’s kid stuff.” Matthew winced at himself. He hated saying that. He hated when he got annoyed at things being easy. It was the whole reason his heart broke in the first place. 

Francis only sighed, still watching Matthew, his eyes soft, gentle. He crossed his legs, taking a sip from his coffee. He looked back out the window. The street lights spilled against the freshly fallen snow. In the darkness, only in their beams could the whirling flecks be seen. The snow made the world look so bright at night.

“Matthew, it matters. That first snow. After many more snow storms, it won’t seem like anything. But the world still felt it. The world absorbed its water, its cold. Some of it may be hurt because of it. But it’s only first snow. The world will grow again, after winter ends.”

Matthew felt he knew what Francis was talking about. Why did he have to say it so weirdly, though. He looked again at his father. At the warn lines on his face, running under the scruff he loved to keep. The gentle eyes, cool water. 

“Papa…” Matthew muttered, feeling his lips tremble and more tears form, bubble, pour over. Francis set the coffee aside and pulled Matthew into an embrace, his chin on his son’s head. Matthew snuggled into the warmth. Francis smelled of coffee and lavender. Arthur always smelled like antiseptic and lavender. Sharp and sweet. 

“Just wait, Matthieu…” Francis said, patting Matthew’s back. “It’ll melt, too. The world will heal from the first frost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd get this out while I work on the next chapters. I apologize: it's a bit shorter than usual, despite my promises from before.   
\- Poem referenced in "Summer" is Love Sonnet XI by P. Neruda


	7. Alfred F Jones - … And Saying Goodbye

Earth - Present Day - London, Under the Stars

Alfred F Jones - … And Saying Goodbye 

_STATUS REPORT: _

_KNOWN ELEMENTS:_

_Creatures, “Non-Human Threats”/“Earth-Plague”/“Aliens”, are highly adaptive. They are apparently able to rapidly evolve, although it is unclear what mechanisms this is done through. They reproduce via sporulation. These spores are released upon impact with a specific organ, the location of which is inconsistent and highly variable. Said organ often is softer and much akin to a human gestation sac. Spores can be rendered sterile with bleach and tea tree oil. Spores take on a “cuboid” cell shape, although other shapes have been documented. Creatures are able to communicate with one another, although not on a frequency or pitch detectable by naked human ears. Creatures are resilient to harsh conditions: preferring outer space vacuum and aqueous environments. _

_Creatures have the appearance of mammals: often they are noted to have four extremities and are furred with white/grey hair. Hair is easily removed, query if they contain spores as well. _

_Creatures are highly dangerous. Inhalation of spores is fatal to (most) humans, all livestock, and most other animals. Creatures highly aggressive. Attacks may be unprovoked, but provoked attacks cause a higher area of damage. Creatures may or may not contain optical organs. Query if they require eye-like structures to see. _

_Information gathered and reported by: _

_Arthur Kirkland_

_Yao Wang _

_Ivan Braginski _

_Xin Lee_

_[…] _

_Always appreciated and thanked for their efforts in the effort, risking their lives for the continuation of many, In Memoriam: Mei Wang, Xiao Wang, Matthew Williams, Elizaveta Héderváry, Gilbert Bielschmidt, Roderich Edelstein, Ludwig B., Erika and Basch Zwingli… _

Arlene passed away the next morning.

Alfred ask, “Why?”

And really, Arthur never knew “why”. He knew why physiologically. Homeostasis ceased to be maintained, the heart stops beating for a number of reasons, the kidneys fail and the blood rots, the brain suffocates without oxygen. All of these were real reasons why. But “Why?” As Alfred asked, Arthur didn’t know. He looked at Alfred hopelessly, and Alfred saw. 

Cremation was not an option. To many bodies piled up and the energy needed to run the machine was too much, it outweighed the peace of mind the people would have. Arlene would be buried, outside of London. Alfred and Kiku would stay for this. Following, they were to leave for the stars. A hall piece would land, free of beasts, hopefully, and pick them up. The fight would go on. Their miniature family would disband once again.

Now they stood, at the foot of a grave Alfred dug alone. He refused help, shovel in hand. He no longer wept, those tears were already shed and gone. Now it was to continue. Arlene did not die for nothing. She did not die in vain. "Never fight in vain.” Alfred breathed.

Their mantra, their final shreds of hope. 

Eventually, they returned to the theatre. Standing atop the building, staring up at the blank red skies, watching as a fragment of hall came down, dipping below toxic clouds, lower and lower. Below them, London was relatively quiet. Someone somewhere screamed followed by a bang and a crash. Either kids playing with fireworks they managed to find, or something worse.

They stood at the top, masks on. Alfred and Kiku geared and packed to leave. Next to them, Yao and Arthur. Arthur smiled at them sadly, embracing Alfred and pressing Kiku’s hands between his. 

“Now, good bye. Don’t forget to come down in a few earth months for our next meeting. I’ve scheduled it a bit far out. Water front will take some time.”

Alfred and Kiku nodded. Alfred grinned. “We’ll do our best not to forget. We’ll even do our homework.”

Arthur rolled his eyes extravagantly, sigh included. Next to him, Yao stepped forwards. He looked at Kiku, eyes unreadable to Alfred. Kiku bowed his head.

“Good bye, Yao.” Kiku said.

Yao nodded. He placed a hand on Alfred’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. 

“Bye, man.” Alfred smile trembled. He turned away, staring at the shadow growing ever bigger above them. After a breath, he quickly said: “It’s hard to say goodbye. For some reason. We’ll see you soon, right?”

“It’s always hard to say goodbye if it’s a real goodbye.” Arthur said, shrugging. “We don’t know what else is in store for us.”

The shadow grew and grew, collapsing the scarlet sky above into fractals of light reflecting off its sides. The dull roar of engines increased in volume. 

“No, we don’t. You all will be safe, right?” Alfred said, turning to the two staying on Earth. They nodded. Tiny pieces of light captured in Arthur’s armor glittered and shone. No blood remained on it. It was as if the night after the party had never even happened. 

Yao turned away, edging towards the stairs that lead back into the building. He raised his hand in good bye. Arthur followed, waving good-bye as well.

. . . 

The worst things about being in space were:

The lag: Alfred had finally put his ear piece into his ear. Shudders ran through him as he did, replaying in his mind the small voices he heard the night before fighting the massive behemoth. Aside from the terrors and demons that crept in his own mind, the five minute delay grew to ten minutes to an hour to more the further they escaped from Earth. A message to Arthur or Yao at home took longer even than an email would, then a letter, then hell - word of mouth across a continent, maybe. Alfred hated it. He hated the waiting, the buzzing, the checks from Arthur that came too muffled to distinguish, followed by a message back for clarity, then a very, very slow “All clear”. The space hall - a massive structure that flew closer to Jupiter than to Earth - took several weeks to arrive at, even with hyper drives. A concept Alfred explained haltingly to Kiku who looked back at him like he was an idiot. In the meantime, Alfred sent staggered signals back and forth to Earth as they floated, accelerated, and pushed towards the hall of Marines. 

The other thing Alfred hated was the Food. This much was obvious. Alfred despised the energy bars, packed with protein, minerals, nutrients, and absolutely zero flavor, since day one. He hated the half-crunch half-soft feel of them in his mouth. All the consistency of cardboard and somehow, none of the flavor! Alfred complained as much to Kiku as they floated towards the small kitchen on day one, their feet grazing the ground and lifting them with each step, microgravity buoying them gently through the hall. The kitchen was a small corner in the hall piece that had come for them - manned by five other marines Alfred had no close relations with - and sat next to sleeping chambers. The sleeping chambers were individual pockets in the walls, easy to float to in microgravity, hard to sleep in. Straps made for security but a significant decrease in comfort. Alfred led Kiku to his chamber, one that was clean and plain. The strap-enhanced cot was screwed to the floor. A small armoire, also screwed down, would hold Kiku’s things. Kiku thanked him, opening drawers and setting his bag inside one of them. 

Alfred lingered by the door, feet grazing the ground, pulled down by the weight of his shoes. He wore a comfortable space suit, no helmet. Red white and blue designs splattered the back of the fabric. Plain grey and silver moved along the front in stripes, dipping into the pants that were loose and comfortable, easily suctioned to the body if needed with a press of a button at the hip. Kiku wore his standard, skin-tight outfit. Pressed firmly into each muscle, dipping between bicep and tricep, rolling down the column of his spine. Alfred, caught gazing, turned away. 

“These beds are small, so two people can’t fit in them.” Alfred said, instantly regretting the words as they tumbled out of his mouth. His face, hot and surely turning an unseemly color of red

“Hmm,” Kiku responded, pulling a small book from his bag and setting it aside within the drawer. “You’d have to plan that strategically.”

“Sure would, whoo— look at that it’s time for a snack.” Alfred had said, turning away quickly. He didn’t catch the half-smile on Kiku’s face as he left. 

The last thing Alfred hated about space, more than all the rest, were the monsters. The creatures were worse in space. For some reason they survived in the vacuum, nutrition-less plane. They not only survived, they thrived. They grew bigger, larger, and evolved faster. Each subsequent spotted species seemed more nightmarish than the other. Whereas on Earth, they seemed consistent, changing, but within earthy limits. 

Upon entering the rest of the hall and meeting with the battalion, Alfred knew the thing he faced the most was the most necessary evil. He had given up trying to talk through the head pieces and tuned it so he could only talk to the battalion and Kiku, and not with Earth. The food was fine. He could live with it. Plus, sometimes Kiku did something to the nasty bars that nearly made them edible. Some sort of sauce Kiku made from what they had that Alfred practically drooled over.

The monsters, however, he could not just “deal with”. It was a problem he had to face. Thinking back, recollecting how he froze in place while Kiku helped Arlene several weeks ago, Alfred realized running was not in option. Never fight in vain, he said to himself, whispered to himself, encouraged himself.

He stood before the other troop leaders. The commander in his absence, a bulky woman with round, bold features and braided black hair, began by initiating a report. They had three attacks while Alfred was gone. And, ironically, three fatalities. The monstrous force had pressed in on one of their stations floating just outside of Jupiter’s orbit, consisting of strange, snake-like renditions of the creatures (previously unseen). The battalion was able to stay their onslaught, losing two in the fight. Another wave came shortly after, followed by a third. One more honorable marine was lost during the fight. 

Alfred nodded, stood, and began to speak himself. He tried to remember how Arthur spoke, how he commanded a room, how he ignited hope where there was nothing but wet kindling. “Thank you for your efforts. I’m proud of all of you. 

“First, I want to announce a new member and my co-captain: Kiku Honda.”

Polite greetings circulated the room, mostly gruff, mostly stiff. Most of these people towered above Kiku. Kiku kept his chin high and greeted everyone, meeting all their gazes. He thanked them, his hands placed in his lap, palms down. 

“Secondly, we’ve been encouraged by our forces on Earth to double our efforts. We are to increase our aggression. Seek them out before they seek us. We have been playing a highly defensive role these past few years. Now, I believe, it is time for us to become a war hammer ourselves. I have been told we found a clot of these bastards floating way out in the asteroid belt. We prepare for a direct attack there. Starting tomorrow, I will command a fleet to detach from the hall and press the attack. Are there volunteers?”

A few hands rose. Someone scoffed. Alfred turned to that stranger, a woman with short hair. Alfred locked eyes with her.

“I’m not objecting. Just weird how they want us to switch from defense to offense so quick. One second they were telling us to act like a wall. Now we’re a bunch of kamikaze pilots. No offense.” She rolled her eyes at Kiku, who said nothing in return. “Seems weird.”

“I agree it’s a sudden shift in tactics. I, however, agree with the proposal.” Alfred responded carefully. The woman shrugged in response. 

Alfred picked his teams, men and women he hardly knew, to risk their lives the next day. 

… 

A trip under hyper drive pushed the unit towards the previously noted clot of beasts. Alfred sat in the front of the ship, coupled with Kiku, a pilot, and an engineer. The engineer, a sullen, older man, was entirely unlike the spunky Arlene. Alfred swallowed a hard lump in his throat at the thought. The man was named… what was his name again? The pilot, however, was a tall, gangly, soft-spoken man. He had longer hair than most men, letting it dip to his shoulders. Alfred wasn’t particular, but many of his troops shaved their heads either out of tradition or convenience. 

The sight of the pilot, named Adam, drove Alfred into his memories. 

He felt more than saw: Matthew crumbled in front of him, his lower torso ripped away, breath gasping. Begging for Alfred to run. His glasses shattered and pushed off his face, a few pieces of glass dug into his cheek. Same shoulder-length hair. 

The painful memory caused Alfred to hesitate before greeting the man. He shoved the feelings aside, sticking out his hand. 

The rest of the crew, twenty men and eleven women, sat in the back of the back of the ship. This ship had a long, flat top. Enough space for the troops to clamber on top of, take aim, and hopefully render the beasts into nothingness. 

“That bitch, I think her name’s Karen.” Adam said, startling Alfred from his thoughts.

“Sorry?”

“That chick who laughed at you yesterday.” Adam said, easy going smile firm on his face, “She really thinks this is weird? The whole aliens thing is weird. A change in tactics is old school.” He flipped a few switches on his end. Alfred watched the man’s long, crooked, piano-playing fingers dance over keys. Lights turned on in the cockpit. The engineer grunted, crossing his arms. Kiku, wearing a very, very light suit of armor, looked towards the pilot.

Alfred’s own suit stood at ready just outside the cockpit. Soon as they were close enough, it was go time. His back and palms itched. 

“She’s fine. It’s understandable to question authority when prospects appear grim.” Alfred said. 

Rocks and debris, tiny flecks of plants strewn in a ring that from this distance looked like everything that ever was, floated before them. Stars sprinkled the sky just beyond, embedded in the black and blue cloth of the universe. A mass of white on a slab of metal - human made? - trembled just beyond their line of sight.

Adam announced their destination was closing in.

“Thank you for flying Fucked Up Future airlines. Please, take all your belongings as you exit the ship. Don’t forget to activate your awards card!” Adam said, letting go of the handheld speaker, letting it zip on its cord back to the ceiling.

Alfred smiled, finding humor tucked away in a difficult to reach spot. 

“Ready.” Alfred said, the knot growing closer and closer. His heart thundered in his throat.

Adam pulled to a stop.

On that metal sheet, long and endless, were thousands of staring eyes. Stacks upon stacks of creatures. All different shapes, all different distortions. Some even resembled Earth animals - horses, lions, giraffes, hippos. Only in shape. Every one had the same dull fur, the same forwards-facing eyes. The same unnatural rumbling. The ship pulled into suspension in space, rumbled with the sound of heavy feet rumbling on the roof. Alfred swung out of his seat, out of the doors, and into his suit. Kiku followed close behind. Adam and the engineer (was his name… Eric? Damian?) geared up as well, but they would remain on the ship to carry the troop home after they won. 

That was the only way Alfred could think. The other was not an option. 

He heaved himself to the rooftop,“Never fight in vain!” he chanted. A chorus of echoes burst through his head piece, nearly deafening him. 

Alfred stood before the crowd of beasts. It seemed the battlefield was almost silent, still. The creatures moved and rolled and floated. They stuck to the metal as if by gravity, or maybe magnetized. They watched the troops, short lines of men and women in suits making them nearly five times as strong as they would have been out of it. Five times the power.

The charged, cutting the gap between the ship and the metal sheet - something ripped from a ship. A large “J” painted the side of one of them, curled and red. Alfred didn’t pause to think. His feet thundered against the metal, pushing him closer to the first wave of beasts. He never felt so easy, so free to float.

The first creature to realize the attack, a bird-like being, swooped close to Alfred. Following it were the rest, a charge of white, static on a TV, surging towards his empowered battalion. The bird like creature, maw shaped like a beak but without the hard tissue, opened on Alfred. Alfred caught a glimpse of the creature’s throat, an endless vault of black pulsating with tiny gestation sacs of spores. Alfred raised his robotic arms, grasping two ends of the maw, and yanked hard, town, tearing the creature down the middle. The seams split and carnage tumbled out - grey sludge and pockets of organs. Alfred moved to the next one, aiming his automatic gun at its horse-like face.

In it he saw the creature that had grasped Matthew’s legs in its mouth, twisting and tugged. He shot its face and, once it had fallen, slammed the gun on the rest of its body, squishing it. Thank god they were fighting on metal. The magnets in his suit held him down, making his swings take on a greater power, as if fighting with gravity. His suit could swing forcefully even in a vacuum, but this was better. Way, way better.

The next creature, another human-like yeti beast, swung for Alfred, crashing into his body.In it, he pictured the beast that had grabbed poor little Erika - a story he heard days later - the one that had devoured her flesh. Alfred’s breath rattled out of him with the force. He felt an injection of epinephrine surge through his blood, injected by the needles in his suit. He turned to strike, but the creature’s body had been cut clean in half. Its upper half, once dissected, floated in free fall towards outer space, going up not down. Surely dripped metallic fluids. Behind it, Alfred saw Kiku. Kiku’s sword poised, whipped like a rope away from Alfred and on to the next beast. An equine one, whose legs collapsed with the blunt blow of Alfred’s robotic fist. Crushing the cartilage like structure that held it upright. Then a lion, whose muscled body he tore into easily, cutting it like fabric, carnage splattering upwards, hanging.

On and on it went, slaughter after slaughter. Tiring, but easy. In each he imagined a different death. He splashed blame where he could, imagining these creatures were the same ones on earth. He exacted revenge. He swung his metal body, feeling powerful, feeling unstoppable. It was so easy. 

The rhythm of battle swung and swayed, then shuddered to a halt. As Alfred slashed down a cat-like creature, he saw the others scuttle back. Back on the metal sheet, suspended like a piece of paper in the middle of space. His troops, unharmed but splattered and breathing harshly, stepped back as well. 

The beasts did another surprising thing. 

They collected.

They molted and molded and flung together, crushing into a massive colossus. One that made the beast that killed Arlene seem minuscule in comparison.

“Shit,” echoed through the headpiece. 

Alfred, panting, watching as it gathered.

Unholy, unseemly, unnaturally. A massive heap of creature. Ever one of the remaining living creatures sucked into its body. A towering, sloping, deformed creature. It careened, tilting the metal sheet with its collected, focal weight. The troop felt the shift but did not slide, thanks again to their suits. Alfred felt his breath catch.

He watched as the creature, reeling its body back, slammed forwards. Thunders of echoes, vibrations hard enough to rattle teeth, shot from its impact, right on some of his troops. The mass lifted. The troops, staggered, but not crushed, squirmed. Alfred breathed in relief, willing his legs to start moving.

At his side, Kiku stood, speaking through the headpiece. “Distract the head Half down by the head half from behind.”  
The troop split evenly in two, half for the head half from behind. Alfred joined the front. Shooting, firing, stabbing. When the creature howled, a sound heard over their headpieces, a sound that captured radio waves and sent them spiraling into their brains so hard it felt their spines were about to pierce out of their flesh — it came crashing down again, landing its bulbous, head like piece in front of them, on some who had their sharps out, sticking stair in, using the force of the creature and the softness of its flesh to pierce through. Alfred aimed lower, cutting and hacking. Foaming bubbles of spores burst from its flesh, pouring out, unable to get at the tasty humans for they were suited and safe. 

Alfred caught site of Kiku, taking advantage of the creature’s downward tilt, and landing a solid strike on the slim connection between bulbous head and body. 

Like that they hacked and cut, separating the thin piece. The body, where Kiku and that slice of troop were, pulsed and beat.

The core. The center. 

Alfred was about to say as much when the creature released another wave of noise, striking through his brain and cutting through. One of the troops had shoved their suit sharps into the body, piercing through the slightly glowing, pulsating, blood-red core. Kiku, who looked small next to the battle regalia surrounding him, held his sword even, and cut through. The core, bigger than three of the battle regalia armor combined still, burst into a shower of red and grey and sludge.

It was defeated.

It stopped moving, its core’s splattered remains no longer keeping it alive. 

“We did it.” Alfred whispered, then, louder: “WE DID IT!” 

Cheers rang out, the troops rushing forwards, surging back to the ship, back to celebration. 

Back on board in the main hall, cheers echoed through. It was a success - the attack had completing obliterated all the creatures. Those that floated elsewhere had come close, if any did float, and had collected in that mass. A dying, last-resort tactic for the creatures. Something to ponder over later, on Earth. Alfred had the troop recollect to Adam who would sign off on a report back to Earth.

Alfred was elated.

It meant hope. It meant victory. It meant a chance of survival.

“More like that and we’ll get them!” Alfred said. Cheers echoed after him.

Kiku, undressed from his armor and back in his body suit, smiled at Alfred. Alfred, his pulse racing, leaned down and pressed his lips to Kiku’s. 

He stopped, eyes wide and pulled away. “Ah, sorry, shit — I was so excited.” He stopped. Kiku had reached up, placing a hand on Alfred’s neck, and pushing him down to his height, meeting Alfred’s lips again. Alfred gasped, but kissed back, pushing Kiku against one of the walls in the many empty halls. 

He pressed against Kiku, holding his head in his hand, feeling the sweat-soaked hair beneath his palm, feeling the small of Kiku’s back against his other palm. Kiku’s smaller hand pressed into his neck, fingers digging gently, wanting more.

Alfred stopped, stepping back, looking at Kiku. His breathing came hard and fast.

“What…?”

“You’re an idiot, Alfred.” Kiku said. His own face flushed. “From day one I liked you. Why did you never say anything?”

Alfred paused, hungering for another kiss, glancing down Kiku’s neck, where the skin met the fabric and dipped lower. Alfred held Kiku’s shoulders in his hands. “You’re so much better than me.” Alfred said at last, his eyes meeting Kiku’s. 

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve always…” Alfred leaned back closer, not quite wanting to divulge his worries on such a glorious, victorious day. He kissed Kiku’s forehead. “You’ve always inspired me.”

Kiku pressed into the embrace. Alfred hadn’t realized he had wrapped his arms around the smaller man, but there he was. Holding, gripping, touching. 

“You know, fighting battles does something to your body.” Kiku whispered. “I think that small bed will do, for now.” 

Alfred, led like a dog on a leash, followed. Kiku gripped his hand, lacing his fingers between his. Alfred’s heart thundered again, but without the bloodlust. Without the anger. 

Only him, only him and Kiku, whose body pressed to his felt like another piece of his own. Fingers on his lips, on his tongue, tapping his teeth and making him laugh. Finger nails shaped like almonds, skin hot and warm and real. A body suit that was surprisingly easy to peel off fell away, landing on the floor in a small pile, next to his own. Kiku was small, the cot was big enough. Alfred crouched over Kiku, pressing himself into him, holding Kiku’s small, sinewy body him, the ropy muscles in all the strength held the beauty of gentleness, too. Alfred felt release and pleasure riding up his spine, tingling his scalp. He looked at Kiku, a breath away from him, smiling at him, touching his face, his lips, his mouth. Gentle, smoother, softer. He leaned down for another kiss, stealing them like plucking fruits from a bowl, popping the sweetness into his mouth, savoring, hungering for more. A meal, a taste. 

Alfred collapsed on the cot, a new sheen of sweat filming his forehead. He rolled Kiku on top of him, so he lay on the cot and Kiku lay on him. He wrapped his arms around the smaller, paler man, holding him close and smelling his hair.

Outside the other marines were talking loudly, cheering, drinking alcohol they had saved. The next day Alfred would announce his next plan of attack. They would first see if any aliens remained on the belt, then he’d plan and… 

And…

Alfred’s mind drifted away. The war, the plague, the battle — all of it seemed to trivial, so outside of his world. All his world contained, in that moment, was Kiku so close to his chest, playing with Alfred’s cowlick.

“Hey wait a minute don’t touch that. I work hard on making it stand like that.” Alfred grinned, pushing Kiku’s hands down. 

Kiku smiled at him, sticking his tongue out. Alfred hugged him again, his heart soaring. He felt that wasn’t a figure of speech, he felt as if his heart truly did take wings and fly straight to his throat, landing like a lump, making tears that bubbled up hard to fight.

“Why are you crying?” Kiku said, sitting up.

Alfred was smiling, but tears rolled down his cheeks. Rain with sunshine. 

“Sorry, I’m so happy. That’s all. I’m so happy. I didn’t think we could be happy again.” Alfred said, laughing and hiccoughing.

Kiku held him close, held him till he ceased weeping, until he slept, held him close so that, if the world really did end, at least it gave him enough time for this. 


	8. Tino Väinämöinen - Old Widow

Boreas - Long After the Fall - Winter Cycle

Tino Väinämöinen - Old Widow

_And on that land that clattering sword_

_Ice and blood upon the tattered hoard _

_Cried the anguished lover’s what to be foretold _

_Hoarse and bitter and cold— _

_“my heart, my love, my dear—_

_Send me something, something to crush the bone aching fear—“ _

_And from those scarlet skies reigned, _

_The once Atlas became unchained…_

Tino set aside his ratty copy of the World’s Word, an incredibly dusty epic retelling of history, to tend to his faltering fire. He pushed more peat inside, disturbing the leaping ribbons of flame. Warmth dripped from the fire, lovely and warm, but far too weak. Around him was his fox, a white coated arctic curled in a tight ball. Her greying muzzle nudged against him, complaining from the shift in his body weight. He turned back to her, placing a hand upon her soft head and patting her gently. Outside his small shack, the winds howled and wept. 

In the mountainous, bitterly cold regions of Boreas - a planet now housing the escapees of earth (this history long forgotten) - was Tino’s home. A shack stuffed into the crooks of a mountain, but at a poor angle, so the winds bit and fought over his land. With the howling, and with his fox - Ilmatar - the loneliness eased. Now, the skies were dark, shrouding the world from the sun’s pale blue light. Tino looked out his window, setting the shriveled tone atop his table and rising. His floor boards whimpered beneath his feet. Ilmatar was not happy about his departure, either, and muttered a cry of disdain as well. Tino raised his hand to silence the warm beast. 

“Hush now my love, I’m only peeking outside.”

Today, the weather was particularly riotous. The soils of this planet were rich, plentiful to feed nutrients to vegetables and roots. The air had enough oxygen to maintain life. The weather did what it could to eradicate human pests. He peered outside from his small shack, from smoke pluming from its chimney and was whisked away, chopped by a sudden breeze. The town nestled perhaps a twenty minute walk from there, sheltered behind a mountain. There, Tino ventured for supplies. He took his fox, Ilmatar, down each time. His heart could not bear leave his last loved one alone. 

“What do you think, my beloved?” Tino said, glancing towards the town, tiny fires twinkling. Beyond that was only the slope of an unknown land. In all their years that they had been there, Tino had yet to see what lay beyond the palmful of the world they had seen. Their ship had landed, not long after the first expedition, carrying him and his loved ones to the strange place. But that was so many years ago, Tino thought, turning towards the sky. Icy rain began to form droplets against the glass. Almost obscuring the shadow that marched steadily towards him, between the twin faces of the mountains, just adjacent to his view of the town. The stranger, the person, hobbled and bent against the wretched winds. They reached the outcropping of Tino’s vegetable patch, stopped, and bent to their knees.

Tino grabbed his hood and draped it over his head and, with a quick battle against the suction-closed wooden door, launched himself into the bitter world. Against the patch the stranger, hooded and robed in folded black, dark as space, knelt and trembled. Tino approached him, his feet sliding in the softened mud as wind pushed his small body to and fro. He placed his hands upon the stranger, feeling weakened muscles jerk weakly under his grasp. Tino closed his grip more tightly, leading the stranger to his home. 

Tino deposited the robe-clad figure by the peat fire, startling Ilmatar into seclusion. The fox was likely hidden under his bed, where it was warm and safe, more safe than warm. Tino threw another log into the fire, expelling a gust of warmth, scattering the cold like shattered glass. Once his was certain this stranger was alive, hidden but alive, he left for his kitchen to set a pot of water to boil, as well as reheating soup from earlier.

Once Tino had a warm basin of water, a cup of soup, and water to drink, he returned to his main room to find the figure unhooded and bent before the fire. Wordlessly, Tino helped what he now saw to be a vaguely familiar man with black hair settle down on his chair. He used the warm basin to cleanse the man’s hands and feet, expelling dried blood and mud into the depths of the wooden bowl. Once done, he fed and watered the man, setting himself to the side. He watched as the man’s eyes focused, two almond-shaped and delicate folds, puffy and red. Obscuring obsidian irises, staring, weakly, at Tino.

“Thank you…” He whispered, clutching at the bowl and bowing his head. 

Tino took the bowl away and made a place for the stranger to rest. He resisted, at first this strange man with hair long, long enough to reach his hips. He insisted he had to talk to Tino. But his words flowed in and out of a language Tino could not understand, intermingling with one he did. 

“I cannot understand you, lost one.”

“Do you know me? Do you remember me?” 

Tino placed a warm blanket on the man, folding him into captured warmth. He shook his head. “I may have seen your face before, but I’m an old widow my dear…”

“Old…? Widow?”

Tino smiled. 

Sometimes, it seems, people saw him as a young man. Shorter than many, but healthy with full skin, ripe as a peach. At others, people saw a hobbled ancient thing, twisted with centuries of age. An old wizard, perhaps, or seer. It was odd, Tino thought, how he saw himself as both and neither. He saw himself as a widow - a crone weaving and grieving in abandonment, sewing together tales from ancient texts because that was all that was left to do. 

“‘Old widow’ is my epithet, it seems. I guess I would be a widower,” Tino mused, more to himself. The man watched him incredulously. “Things like that don’t matter on this world. We are what we are. I have been left by those who love me, through no fault of anyone’s, and so I’m a widow.”

“You’re talking so differently now,” the stranger who he may have known once before whispered. He rested back against Tino’s touch. Once asleep and most likely safe, Tino left the man to sleep. 

He returned to his bedroom, finding his Ilmatar under the bed. He coaxed her out with pieces of food, moving as a young man, easy to bend and easy to rise. He slept just as well, too, listening to the wind cry.

The following morning, the wind had ceased. Outside, freshly fallen snow lay. Clean, pure white blanketed from his home, across his vegetable patch, and spanning out to the town. The pale blue sun poked through the clouds, piercing with a crystalline clarity. Tino admired the way it lay upon his floors, ancient and dusty. He made his way back to his main room, to tend to his guest. At his heels, Ilmatar followed. He glanced down at her.

“My dear, nosy aren’t you?”

She made small mewling noises at him, following now at a distance. 

Tino found the man risen, sitting up on the makeshift bed. His head was turned towards the open world. His hair fell across his face, long strands slipping from behind his ear, plucking a harp backwards. Tino felt that bubble of recognition in his heart rise. He had seen this man before, somewhere. Not in the town. He knew everyone there. Everyone of which was old. This man was young, wiry, strong. Clear skin, tender lips, unmarred by the aging winds of this planet. No, this man was distinctly not from Boreas. 

Well, neither was anyone. This planet did not have humans, before they arrived.

Tino poured another bowl of warm soup - reptilian-like fowl that run rampant as the meat and his rich, starchy vegetables as stock - and handed one to the stranger as well as himself. For Ilmatar, he placed uncooked food in her own bowl upon the floor. She ate carefully, her face towards the stranger and her back arched. 

Tino sat on the other couch, of which there were two, and waited patiently as the man ate and gathered his thoughts. He looked at Tino, his eyes unfocused. 

“Tino…?”

“You know my name, stranger. What’s yours?” Tino said. Ilmatar finished her food and rushed to his side, curling her graying tail around his feet and leaning her head protectively against his legs. Her rush was more of a staggered limp, her back legs dragged more now than before. Tino glanced at her bowl, finding only half of it eaten. Ilmatar was old for a fox, reaching nearly her 6th year. The past few weeks she had grown weaker and sleepier. Since the stranger arrived, she appeared to have hit her second wind. Tino hoped this was for the best. 

“Y—my name…” The man turned away. He pulled his hair forwards, pouring it over his shoulders and fingering through knots. “I, well, if you don’t remember me I don’t think it matters. I thought you were dead. I only heard about you some time ago and, well, you’re one of my last hopes.”

“What can I help you with? I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer.” The youth that had incidentally slipped into Tino the night before was quickly peeling away, shedding like layers. He felt his back push forwards and his hands tremble. “I hardly have much of myself, really.” 

“I can see that. I don’t know how you’re doing that. None of the others ever got old. The Good Doctor, he always looked a bit older. But that’s from his line of work, I think. And in those early years after the Plague hit, he really took a turn for the worst. I—I apologize for speaking so bluntly. I haven’t seen anyone from our past in so long, and you don’t even remember me. It’s hard to stop.” 

Tears dripped down the man’s face, trailing like rivers. Tino watched curiously, empathetically feeling his own eyes moisten. “Oh, I’m sorry. I apologize for not knowing you! You see, it’s been a while since I’ve lived alone here. Nearly 6 years.” Tino said, rubbing Ilmatar’s head. “My—my husband passed away back then. My son left then, too. Trials for maturity. Silly thing, really.” Now Tino was rambling. He glanced at the almost-stranger, who nodded for him to continue, his own streaming eyes a sombre shade of understanding. Tino shook his head. “Well, it’s a trial all young men face upon this world. If they so choose, and if they choose the life of a ‘young man’, per se. It’s a bit different than what Earth once had…

“My son, Peter, he reached twenty and left the morning of. We had no idea. Berwald, my husband, he was already fading away on his death bed. These young men don’t return, pass or fail. Failure is death. Passing is unknown, even to me. Berwald passed a few weeks on.” Tino turned his head to look out his windows. Big, arching, circular things. Berwald hated them at first. But Tino loved them. He loved watching the world freeze itself over, beauty in death. A light snow was falling, gentle finger tips touching the glass, children playfully tapping. “That’s why I said widow.” Tino said. 

It was difficult for him to imagine a “before”. Before this, before the cold of Boreas and its desperate struggle for survival. All hope seemed to be receding, fading away into nothing. When the message arrived on a lone radio signal, a grumpy old man its keeper, they felt their effort would not be in vain. This planet they would colonize for the memory of what was lost. In that tiny shack, the old man growing feistier the more that crowded into his room, they all heard that Earth was no more. Obliterated, destroyed, leaving nothing by scarred remains. The fleet orbiting the earth was vanquished into dust. All of this happened before the landing of the ship upon harsh, but rich earth. Time flowed differently, skipping centuries or skipping minutes. It was difficult to tell. Many of their scientists were left behind on Earth, monitoring the march through space of frozen pilgrims, waiting for a place to continue humanity. Vain. Once on the most hospitable planet they could find, the scientists detached. Focused on helping earth keep up the fight. The ship landed just fine, opening its doors for these people to survive and build. Shutting its doors, spitting out instructions, now a decommissioned space craft. The people thrived. They dismantled, dissected, and built anew. Tools foraged from steel parts. Batteries that worked for some time to power for heat. But, these too eventually fell away.

Tino remembered holding an infant in his arms, an infant thrust on to him by someone he hardly knew, and was told to nurture it. The infant grew to be his son, but in this early chapter of the story, in these bitter harsh winds and in the struggle to keep warm when the battery circuits became unreliable, when wood had to be chopped and Berwald came home, the skin of his hands torn and blood freezing at his cuticles, wrapped, bandaged, set right only to be brutalized once again the next day — all of it to build a life.

Tino remembered hardly eating, pertaining what he could to the infant. Formula from the ship lasting enough for the mewling mouth, balled up fists of dozens of infants. Enough until they were grown to eat food they could grow - and what a joke that was. Prying vegetables, although rich enough to feed the whole family, was pulling teeth from the world. 

The infant became a toddler, and he was lucky. Many small graves were dug, dotting the earth outside the town. The pale blue sun killed more than it nurtured. The idea to escape quickly felt more painful than having have stayed.

Tino and Berwald settled in their home. Another home cropped up near theres, two, three. Quickly they rose and quickly they fell. Harsh blizzards smote those from the earth, taking the families that grew and lived along with them. Only Tino and Berwald’s tiny home remained sturdy enough to survive. Berwald insisted it was the positioning, stating the mountain’s shadow blocked the harshest of weather onslaughts. Tino could not see it that way. He could only see it as something outside of them, outside even of luck, something meant more. 

These divine feelings quickly festered into loss of faith. Peter grew distant, Berwald grew sick. His skin became discolored like many of the men of the town. Blotchy, purple, painful. Tending did nothing. Mothers became mourners became widows.

Peter brought him a fox from outside he had found. Earth like, save for a strange scaling on its inner ear and back of its paws. A fox by any other name would cuddle just as much, Tino decided, and named her after a goddess.

No—well, before this. Before that, what was there? Tino tried to dig back. He recollected bluntly and painfully, letting these words escape freely, gushing rivers. 

“I don’t remember before that, but there had to be a before then? I felt I was young back then. Thirty, maybe more? I’m not sure. I’ve lost count.” Tino frowned, and looked at Yao. Yao sat straighter. 

“I know, do you want to know?”

Tino nodded, feeling the fox against his leg. He pressed her face to his. “Please, tell me.”

“From the beginning?”

“From the beginning, yes.”

**Earth: Before the End. Guangxi, China.**

**Yao Wang - Casualty and Causality**

The pipes have frozen over. Yao could see his breath come in white, plumy clouds. They rose until the lights of his living room obscured them, his breath gone under the eyes of a solemn and golden Buddha. Yao put on another jacket and poured himself another cup of tea. He considered, holding the earthenware cup to his lips, the steam curling into his nose. He glanced towards the door that led to the storage room. He poured another cup.

Inside, the creature trembled. Its humanoid frame cuddled against a concrete corner, its breath raspy and wet sounding. A space heater radiated warmth, yet it remained in the colder part of the room, Yao noticed. He knelt forwards, placing the cup on the ground. The creature, unchained, strange, crawled to the cup. Its trembling, fuzzy head turned up, glancing at Yao with two brown eyes, placed where a human’s would have been. But it couldn’t have been a person. Not even a zombified person would appear so hideous. Yao sat cross legged at the door frame. Winter cold leaked through the earth, sharply stabbing through his three layers of pants and stinging his skin. Yao watched as the creature bent its long head, unhinging a jaw behind where a chin would be, extending a long tongue-like muscle. It dipped the tip in the tea and squealed wildly. It reeled back, slamming an overly long arm at the cup, shattering it next to Yao’s head. He sighed.

It scampered back to its corner, curling in on itself. It tightened its posture when Yao spoke.

“What do you eat? You can’t live without food, nothing can.” He said, more to himself than to it. “I’ve given you everything. I gave you carrots and cabbage and a slice of beef, but still you won’t eat.” He stood up and picked up a wicker broom from the kitchen, just to the right of the storage room. He swept the warm, tea-scented fragments of cup. They clattered into the dustpan.

The being mewled pathetically, the sound breaking into hiccuping gulps as if it were crying. 

“If I had half a mind I’d send you out.” Yao muttered, shutting the door behind him. Whenever he left it open, hoping the creature would stumble out and go back where it came from, it would instead slam the door on itself, weeping still. 

The bedroom door, the only other room in the small house, creaked open. 

“Good morning, Mei. You woke up early today!” Yao chastised, watching the young woman crawl out, huddled in a pink comforter. She curled her upper lip at Yao.

“You woke up early today.” She mocked, shivering. Her hair was up and tucked under a fluffy white beanie, little pompoms dangled from the side, brushing against her cheek. Her make-up was applied, eyes bright and bordered. She pulled the comforter tighter on herself, draped over her shoulders like a robe, and approached the kitchen. She poured herself tea and opened the tiny refrigerator, peering in.

“Ah, how rude!” Yao cried. “Not even a good morning? Go straight to the kitchen and make yourself breakfast, of course. But not after you woke up early. What did you do all night?”

Mei rolled her eyes, shutting the empty refrigerator, and cast her eyes towards the smoke-stained ceiling. “I was working on my thesis, Yao. You know that. Why are you so ornery today?”

“Have some respect for me while you live here.” 

Mei huffed, loudly, and looked away from Yao. In reality, she had stayed up late streaming a popular video game. She had pulled her hair up in the fashion of one of the characters - two buns that unraveled into braids, resting against her shoulders. She had put on the top part of the cosplay. She winked at the camera, flashing a peace sign. “Internet’s bad out here, guys, but we’ll make do.” She said. She had placed soundboards against the door, well aware that Yao slept in the living room on a foldable bed, under an electric blanket. Despite her efforts, Yao could hear her through the door. He heard her call out her subscriber’s names and sing a catchphrase “Thank you to the stars and back!” 

It was awfully cute, Yao thought, pushing a pillow against his head. But, it made it impossible to sleep. 

Mei’s eyes slid and landed on the storage door. She pointed with her chin. “Did he eat anything today?”

“He?”

“Did he?”

“No.” Yao said, brushing past Mei in the kitchen. “And don’t eat too much, I’ll prepare hot pot later. Help me get vegetables.” He slid out of his fuzzy shoes and pulled on his outdoor boots. Two pairs of long, frilled pink gloves with Hello Kitty winking on the palms hung by the door leading outside the tiny home. He put one pair on and tossed the other to Mei. Mei frowned at the gloves, glancing back longingly at her bed.

“How did you live here so long without central heating?” She dangerously neared whining. “Beijing is a paradise compared to this awful hole.” 

Yao ignored her, stepping outside into the crisp, newly fallen snow. It was pure and white, laying across their fields, extending into the gentle slopes just beyond. Other homes dotted the blank canvas, green and black walls like strokes of watercolor. A chill rolled into the home, causing Yao only further annoyance. Mei, dropping her converter on a chair, followed him. They shut the door with a huff, leaving the last little bit of warmth shelter provided. Outside, the air clung to their skin, still, near stagnant. Yao broke the patch of milky white, crunching a path towards their garden. He felt Mei at his back, humming to herself. 

“I don’t know what it eats.” Yao said. “I can’t get it to even drink.”

“I got him to eat cabbage before.” Mei said, stopping by one of the rolled patches of earth, prodding the ground with a foot. Snow sunk below her; nothing was beneath this patch. Yao veered off the path towards more rolled patches, stopping to prod with his feet as well. 

“I tried cabbage, too! Didn’t even try. It looked at it and hid like I had hit it.”

“Did you?”

“No, but it is tempting.” Yao felt plastic billow and crinkle beneath his feet. He crouched down, pushing snow from a mound with his gloved hands and pushing it. Their garden, protected by a large tarpaulin canvas, was untouched by the frost so far. 

He pulled free several leafy, green vegetables. He held these out for Mei to grab. She gathered these in her arms, looking out towards the hills. Only their bases, shadows on white, were visible. The rest receded into an endless skyline. Mei really wanted a hot bath. 

Yao had gathered an assortment of vegetables and had Mei retreat to the kitchen. Once she left, he made his way to their geese. He traversed back up the hills, rubbing his hands together, trying to encourage blood flow to his frozen fingers. He figured the sun was overhead, but no amount of squinting at the blinding sky indicated exactly where. A slightly brighter patch hung somewhere just overhead. It was likely noon.

The Chinese geese honked this arrival, staring at Yao with black, pinpoint eyes. They huddled in one corner of their hutches, fluttering their dirty wings as he approached. Yao grinned at them. “Which one of you do I eat today?”

More honks.

Yao picked up the nearest goose, holding it to his chest to warm its ovular, feathered body. Certain Mei couldn’t hear, he lowered his voice. “Neither of you. You’re too cute to eat.” He made loud kissy-noises at them both. The one he held kicked its webbed, orange feet rapidly, scraping against Yao’s jacket. He put this one down and went to warm the other one. It honked in protest at being lifted, shifting its wings but sinking its body into Yao’s warm chest. He patted its long neck gently. Its head flicked from side to side, opening its angular beak for another, more contented honk. 

As Yao laid feed on the ground, trying his best to uncover the frigid grass beneath the snow, he heard a loud crash from his home. He turned sharply, listening intently for more. Another clatter came and the front door burst open. Mei tumbled out, crying in pain. Yao abandoned his geese, running towards the home on the opposite side of their garden. Mei turned to him, flicking blood as she went. Two long scratches sloped down her face, crossing her left eye, nose, and the right corner of her lip. Tears flooded down her eyes. Yao stopped just short of her, pulling the scarf from his neck. He held it to her face, dabbing at the blood. He held her still, one hand on her shoulder. The blood was already beginning to freeze, steam rising from it in tiny wisps. 

“What happened?” He asked, his heart pounding beneath his finger tips.

She shook her head, breathing deep as she could. “It’s fine, Yao. I’m ok. I made a mistake is all.”

“Did — did it hurt you?” He stared into the home. 

The storage door was open and a face peered out, furry head hanging and staring at Yao. Its eyes were unreadable as far as Yao was concerned, but it didn’t seem hostile. Yao pulled away from Mei, approaching the creature. Yao peeled off his blood-stained gloves, hanging them on their hook. Each step he took closer, the creature trembled and backed. Yao rubbed his bright red finger tips, his face set. 

“What happened?” Yao called again. Mei was following him in, holding the scarf to her face. Threads of wool stuck to her cheek, clinging by blood and cold. She watched Yao wearily. 

“Don’t hurt it. It didn’t do anything. I got too close.”

“Why? What were you doing? You aren’t answering my questions, Mei—” Yao’s voice had taken a different tone. One Mei had not heard in a long, long time. She felt panic grip her chest.

“I… I wanted to take a closer look is all. I got close and it lashed out, cutting me. That’s all. It didn’t chase me or anything. I made so much noise because I was scared. Really, Yao, really. That’s it. It’s cold and scared and alone.” She reached to grab Yao’s arm. He let her, but felt cold to the touch. Something that had nothing to do with the temperature. He pulled away from her, entering the storage area. 

The creature was doing something odd, Yao thought, his jaw set. It was kneeling, its body extended out, oversized head on the floor, and its long arms straight in front of him. Its entire body trembled. At the ends of its hands were claw-like digits, white and tipped with red. Fresh red. That hand shook harder than the other. Yao felt disdain, disgust, but no fear. He stopped just before it, his feet centimeters from its extended arms.

It remained in its position. Yao prodded its head with a shoe. The head bobbed, feeling squishy beneath his feet. The skin, like a thin membrane, receded to his touch, expanding adjacent to where he had applied pressure, rising like fluid was just beneath the surface. Yao pulled his foot back. Fuzzy hairs clung to the sole of his shoes, revealing grey-black skin just beneath. Yao wiped his shoe against the floor, unsure of what to do next. He had expected the creature to be enraged, to launch itself and attack him, swatting with both arms and shredding his skin like paper. Nothing happened. It remained in the uncannily human position, continuously making the weepy, wet sounds. 

Mei stood beside him. The pipes were still frozen. She wouldn’t be able to rinse the blood from her face. Yao exited the storage room wordlessly, shutting it behind him. He pulled a wok from the kitchen wall and went outside. Mei watched him, standing stock-still.

“Yao…?”

“Your face. I’ll heat some snow up. The water we have is frozen solid.” He said, piling fresh snow on to the wok and returning to the kitchen. He set it atop the gas stove. He let the snow melt and begin to steam, not saying a word as he did so. His mind raced, picking options, trying his best to think of ways not to break Mei’s heart. It was generous of her to come stay with him, not that he was lonely or anything,but it was kind nonetheless. He repaid her by getting her face hurt and sticking her in the middle of a rural winter. Plus, on top of all that, he got her hurt by a strange alien-monster they had found in a rice patty. Yao had half expected it to kill them in their sleep the first night. He even locked the doors, unaware yet that it wouldn’t leave the storage room whatsoever. He dipped a wash cloth in the shallow depths and touched it to Mei’s wounds.

Mei allowed him, staring at the storage room.

“Something’s so strange about it.” 

“Yes.” He eyed her. “It needs to go.” 

“We tried that.” Mei winced as the heat met the cut on her eye. Luckily, it was superficial and only lacerated her eyelid, missing the eyeball completely. The brow had taken the blunt of the blow, bleeding freely even as Yao applied pressure.

Yao nodded in response. “And it won’t go anywhere. So I’ll take it outside. I doubt it’ll come back. If it does, it can’t stay.” 

“Maybe we should tell someone about him?” 

“Like who?” Yao dipped a clean corner of the wash cloth in the quickly cooling water. 

“Maybe Alfred, he likes weird things.” Mei suggested. “Or maybe Honda. He’d look into it! He’d also never hurt him.” 

Yao twisted his lips to the side, scrunching his face in concentration. “No, Mei. We don’t need to cause any more problems. They have their own business to go about, now.” Yao paused. “We must get it out of here. Maybe somewhere it can be studied. It would be safe, still.”

Mei recoiled, eyes wide. “No, no, no! You can’t do that! You can’t!” She cried shrilly, “You can’t. They’ll cut him open, but only after they torture and abuse and maim him. They’ll hurt him.”

“Mei!” Yao snapped, sharply. “Stop this whining right now and think. Think hard. You are a smart girl and all you see is pity. Think. It’s a new species.” Yao said. He wasn’t any more eager to send the strange beast to a testing facility than Mei, but the benefits of it being analyzed were numerous. Maybe there weren’t more of the creature anywhere else in the world, but its unique anatomy was enough to break fresh ground in biology. Maybe, even, it would allow him re-entry into erudite circles, past sins forgiven. He glanced again at Mei’s wounds. He imagined the healing, the scars that would creep on to her face, slashing of criss-cross skin rising like landmarks across her otherwise smooth, gentle face. His reasons were selfish. “It would be best if we examined it. If professionals examined it.”

“Arthur! He’s a doctor!” Mei said, running her hands through her hair, pulling apart the bun that had hidden beneath her cap. “He knows what to do. I’m sure he would be humane.” 

Yao shook his head, twisting the bloodied wash cloth between his hands. “No, Mei. He has human patients to deal with.”

“And this isn’t a human? Or not a little bit human?” Mei countered, “Look! Look it was apologizing to you. Could you not see that?” 

“That was mimicry, if anything.”

“Who did it see do that? I certainly haven’t apologized to you, once. And you’d never apologize.”

Yao let that slide, for now. “We found it in the middle of a rice patty, pathetic, and half frozen. It could have seen many people from its birth until two days ago.” 

Mei and Yao had ventured towards the rice patties, intending to see someone there. Along the way, Mei had seen it. She saw the curve of grey and the tremor of motion. Thinking it an animal or a human, she’d rush to help. It wasn’t a human, but this beast. This sorrowful, wounded beast. Mei took it back before Yao could protest, watching her gently coax the creature to crawl after her. Which, it did. Its boneless extremities dragging as it crawled, moving slowly after Mei in the early winter light. It left long, streaking parallel paths behind it.

Scars, scars again. Across her face, cutting the flare of her nostril, the tip of her lip. 

“No, it has to go.” Yao said more firmly, rising to his feet. “I’ll call tonight.” Safety over pity.

“You can’t!” Mei’s face dripped with tears and her nose ran. She winced as the salty water struck each cut, but she didn’t stop weeping. Couldn’t stop weeping, head bowed, golden Buddha behind her, watching. 

Yao re-opened the door to the tiny storage room. Yao peered in, “Creature?” He called in. 

A huffing, dragging, rustling noise echoed through the tiny room. Yao felt a soft, large mass slam into his feet, bringing him down on to his buttocks, sending shooting pain up his spine and through his jaw. Long claws jabbed into Yao’s calves, tearing through his layers of fabric. Yao planted his palms on the ground and shoved himself up with one leg, twisting his lower body out of the creature’s strong, formless grip. He landed a strike to the creature’s head as he moved, cursing loudly. 

“Mei!” He yelled, twisting his head to look.

She screamed, shrilly. He caught a glimpse of grey and black, and of a chair tumbling over. “Mei!” He screamed back, launching himself to his feet, landing another kick behind him, hearing a crunch as the creature’s neck flung back. 

Mei trembled, backing away from another, larger version of the creature in their storage closet. The beast stood so its head brushed against the ceiling. Its eyes glared dully at Yao, inhuman, clear blue-grey. A blind gaze that slouched, unfocused, pinned to nothing but movement. Moisture trickled from the eyes. It was the same shape and texture as the on that had attacked Yao, but different. Something distinctly wrong about this one. 

Mei held the wok before her. The water had sloshed off, splashing Mei’s front and the concrete floor. Her hands trembled as she held it, but she held it, and she held it still. She kept her face forwards on the hulking behemoth, pointing the wok sideways. Yao almost cheered at Mei’s strength, but something had to be done. Yao rushed behind Mei, past the kitchen, reaching for the table. The creature’s head snapped towards him. Watery eyes locked on Yao, its body rumbling as it dragged its disproportioned body towards him. 

Yao grasped the knife he collected from the table, holding it parallel to his forearm. The creature’s body shuddered as it moved, closing in on the space between it and Yao. It launched itself forwards, massive body erasing the distance between them. Yao brushed out of the way, side-stepping, and catching the knife in its neck. It met resistance, and he tugged. Pale liquid erupted from the wound, weeping to the ground and across his favorite, bright pink cooking knife. Yao pulled it free and stabbed it back into the neck, harder. He let go of the hilt. The creature bellowed, the sound like distorted war horn. Yao stepped away, edging towards Mei.

He glanced at her, her eyes wide with awe. 

“You could do that?” She asked, her lips pale.

“Old trick. Mei—!” Yao pushed Mei aside, sliding the wok from her grip. The creature from the storage closet had stood up, its neck dangling limply from its torso. It had lunged for Mei. It stopped as Yao confronted it, raising the wok high above his head. Not his weapon of choice, Yao thought, but it would suffice. The creature continued its snuffling sobs, backing away from Yao, rearing on hind legs. Yao brought down the wok, aiming for the dangling head, and missed. It slipped beneath him, cutting straight through the blow with surprising speed and dexterity. It popped up on the other side, leaping past Mei and dropping to all fours. Mei, on the ground from Yao’s shove, started to clamber back to her feet.

The smaller creature, their creature, stood like a cat before a fight. Its head swung from what few sinews held it to the toros. It made choking, cutting sounds at the larger beast. The large, new creature pulled away from the kitchen, turning to face the smaller one of its kin. Blood seeped from the wound, weakening it, but not killing it. The small one leapt at it, digging with a claw that unhooked from its appendage into the wound Yao had made. It shoved deep inside, pushing harder and releasing a throttled scream. The larger creature pushed against the small one, tumbling it to the ground, unhooking its claw from its wound. The boneless, long limps pressed against the smaller creature’s, against the head, applying force until a sickening burst resounded. Head, popped like a grape, expelled more of the viscous fluid. It coated the kitchen floor, spilling into the cracks of the concrete. Nothing else appearing in the fluid. No brain matter, no skull fragments. Only soft, gelatinous fluid. Mei, caught between screaming and vomiting, coughed sharply, turning away from the scene. 

Yao, still holding his makeshift weapon, determined the real threat to be the large beast. 

This one he could take into study without a morsel of guilt. 

Yao breathed in, deeply.

1… 2… 3

And out, deeply. As he did, he rushed the creature, dodging slow attacks.

3… 

He stopped inside the range of its blow, meeting at the juncture between torso and limb.

2…

He slammed his fist heavily into that point, feeling something like a joint pop from the force of his strike. The limb next to him juddered, spasming as the creature shifted to relocate him. Yao, small as he was, stood just below what he could call the “chin” of the beast. Aiming carefully, Yao took a final blow. 

1… 

He slammed the wok, flat side first, into the creature’s head. It launched the head like a ball stuck to a string, the sinewy neck extending. Crack. Yao heaved the wok in the opposite direction, landing a strike upwards from beneath the neck. The connection sent a stab of pain through Yao’sback.

“Yao!” Mei’s voice came from somewhere very far away. 

The rest of the world had disappeared save for the beast that had made a mess of his home and had lead indirectly to the scarring of Mei. Now, body rippling with pain, the borders of his impromptu world began to dissolve, the ends folding in on the beginnings. He felt the pain creep further down his back. Yao turned, trying to locate the source. He saw two claws poke out of his side, digging in from beneath his shoulder blade and out the tops of his shoulders. Yao felt the world splotch and bleed, old film under fire. Bleed dripped on to his jacket. Shame, that’s his favorite jacket, he thought dimly. Something else was entering his bloodstream, he thought. He’d had worse injuries than this and remained perfectly sound of mind. 

Sound of mind…

Deep breath, in, slow.

1… 2… 3… 

Out, deep breath, slow. 

3… 2… 1… 

Yao released his breath and swung the wok with his good arm, torquing his body in the opposite direction as he did so. The wok landed against the appendage, showing them down and out his scapula, tearing through his skin with searing pain. Yao chose to ignore it, favoring his right, injured side. The wok made a gong-like noise as it struck. Yao held his injured arm, stepping away from the beast, trying to determine where to strike next in a matter of seconds before it could build for another attack of its own. 

Before he could, the creature’s eye burst in a shard of pink. Yao stared as the shard grew bigger and bigger, the creatures head crunching down as it moved. Behind its head, the hilt of Yao’s favorite knife stuck out. 

Yao staggered back, watching as Mei, perched on the creature’s back, her head against the stained concrete ceiling, wrenched free the pink knife. This finally cause the creature to fall, taking Mei down with it. She yelped as she slid, holding the knife tight. Droplets of blood dripped down her chin and over her nose. She landed on her feet, leaping away when the creature careened with another hollow groan. 

It lay, shapeless, upon the ground. It took up more than half of their kitchen and most of their living room. Golden Buddha, always watching, had specks of blood across his round face. Yao dropped the wok he held, his fingers numb from the tightness of his grip. He reached with the numbed hand for his wounded shoulder, pressing against the soaked fabric. His hair had come undone from the battle, leaving strokes like paint in front of his vision. He peered at Mei through the strands of black, watching her face drop from helplessness to grimness. She eyed Yao back, unsmiling. 

“Is it killed?” She asked, her voice weak, malleable, opposing the strength in her expression.

“Unlikely. I will send this one to Beijing.”

Mei stepped closed, eyes cast down at the eviscerated remains of the smaller beast. Its body was crushed beneath that of the bigger one’s. Only the tips of its legs and arms remained. All four ended with hooked, bone-like claws, some still tipped with blood. Besides that, it was hard to tell if the creature had any bone structure at all. The crushed head, torn where the fluid had burst through, lay crumpled sideways. Eyes stared out, pressed into the skin, still open, but no longer holding life. 

“Is the only way to kill it by getting it in the head?” Yao wondered aloud. 

“It tried to help us.” Mei said quietly. 

Scars on her face. Scars against the rest of her life. Bars to a cage.

“It hurt you. It hurt me.” Yao winced as pain crawled from his wounds through the rest of his chest and back. He felt his heart racing, willed it to slow, willed it not to give up on his lifeblood so easily. 

“It jumped to protect us from this thing.” Mei pointed at the large beast. Her air came in clumps of white clouds. The door remained open to the outside. 

There were no foot prints in the snow, Yao thought dimly. Pain fuzzed the edges of his vision. He wouldn’t last much longer upright if he didn’t do something about the wound. He felt an artery was likely nicked. Well, no. Would he already be dead by then? Yao hid his pain, eyeing Mei. “We can’t let this stay here any longer, Mei.”

“I know. I’m trying to tell you something, Yao.” 

Yao focused on her. Her face separated into two, three images. All watching him in anguish and annoyance, worry unraveling steadily. Each face a separate reflection, three identical, ghosted Meis watching him. “Yao, you don’t look very well.”

“What were you trying to tell me.” Yao did his best to stand straighter. He would be fine, he told himself 

“I think the one we helped is different from this other one. I can’t say exactly why. Maybe they’re just… Yao? Yao!” 

Yao felt the floor hit his side and then his face. He still clutched at the bleeding room, thinking abstractly about the frozen pipes. It would be nice if they thawed. They could each take a warm bath, for once. Yao’s vision blurred and re-focused. A pair of shoes, Mei’s shoes, appeared before his nose. He let his eyes shut, thinking about how to best call someone to haul this thing away. But only after the pipes have thawed. 

He could think of no one, but himself. 

**Boreas - Long After the Fall - Winter Cycle**

**Tino Väinämöinen**

Tino touched his fingers to his lips, whispered; 

_“And to her face three lines —_

_For sin, for tragedy, for the divine —_

_For she marked the beginning, for he marked the end_

_The message - the lovers marked it send”_

“What’s that?” Yao asked.

“It’s a poem. They say it was written by a man who piloted the last fight out to fight the Earth Plague.” 

“Strange to sum it all up in a poem.” Yao said, smiling weakly.

“So, you’re from then? From before it all?” Tino asked. He felt dizzy.

“Yes,” Yao said what Tino dreaded most; “and so are you.”

Tino stood abruptly. “I see. I…” He could believe Yao had been there. Time flowed differently. But him? Tino’s own world, already scavenged from scraps, ended with a weak, large hand, ghost of a strong man, rested in his palms. Skin discolored, molted, done. 

Tino rubbed his face. He reached for emotions. Maybe he could throw a fit and kick Yao out? No, he was too old for this. “Stay as long as you’d like, lost one.” Tino said, rising.

“There’s more,” Yao said, rising on uneasy legs. Tino held his elbow, trying to steady him. 

“I’m afraid my heart is full, now. Later, tell me more later.”

Yao nodded, apologetic. “Yes, thank you again. For letting me rest.”

Tino muttered something in return, not hearing what he said.

. . . 

Lies! What scandalous lies. Why did he fill his head so? Why, in his own home, did Tino feel something older? Why did he see the gaping wound of his sky between rising buildings, pouring a black night down on him, far away, on earth? Was there a time when he and Berwald were together, in a time of peace? Where labour and efforts of such magnitude of theres was not the life they led? 

How could he lie to him so?

Give him such false hopes? 

Tino picked his way over rocky, snowy outcroppings. He held a bag to his side, his own share of vegetables rattling against his hip. He needed supplies anyway, leaving was a perfect excuse to get some errands in the town done. He went alone. Ilmatar seemed less interested than she usually was. She had even regarded Yao with a semblance of ease. Perhaps hearing the man lie for so long in such a quiet, regretful voice allowed her to see he was not a threat. Not a physical one, at least. Tino let her stay as he left. Yao sullenly sat, looking away. Shame gripped his heart, Tino could see as much. Shameful liar, he thought. Aloud, he asked if Yao had anything he wanted eat.  
Yao shook his head. “No, but thank you.”

Once in the town, Tino opened his ears to listen to others. A few shambling ancients like himself wondered from small building to the next. Tino stopped at what resembled a bakery. No wheat grew on this land, but the starchy vegetables could be milled if one was patient enough and strong enough. The fake flour made for tasteless, but dense bread. Tino picked up a loaf for himself, listening as a pair of old women, widows, muttered about a flock of lizard-fowl (more goose than chicken, but tasted quite like chicken) had escaped. Tino turned to them, placing some of his vegetables as payment in the baker’s hands. 

“Bless their hearts, the wee chicks.” One woman said, nodding hello to Tino. “Hoped to escape. The wind must sound like a wild animal.”

“Oh Dotty you know those beasties don’t exist here. That’s old news.”

They muttered more as they passed.

Tino, inspired, picked up a plucked and cleaned lizard-fowl from the butcher. Its long, flexible feet had tender red meat. He would give this to Ilmatar when he returned home. He paid with the rest of the vegetables he brought.

Tino wandered around, having gotten the two things he could not grow himself. However, no one was out. 

Tino recalled, somewhere deep, that children loved to play in the snow. Bundled in coats, not hoods made from scrapped fabrics, and hats and two small mittens and strawberry colored scarves. Throwing snow balls, laughing, throwing themselves on the snow as if it were a big sugary pillow. Under a yellow sun.

Yes, a yellow sun.

Tino wandered around the town for nearly an hour. His goods would not go bad, the weather was too cold to let rot creep on to his meat or his bread. The town itself was not very large nor very organized. Homes cropped up where they were best suited, mostly in the mountain’s shadow. The small street of bakers, butchers, and small repairs lined the middle of the town, a sharp dash through the dotted, haphazard area of buildings made of metal. Scrapped together by the men from the journey - many no longer there, Tino shot a quick prayer in remembrance - and placed in the center. The center of their world. 

Really, how could it be a center? Tino mused as he admired a statue. Two children with their hands raised up, clasped together, dressed in summer cloths. The girl had ribbons and the boy had a ball in his hand. On the other side was a cemetery. How could it be the center when they had no clue what coordinates that ship dropped them off at? They could be at a pole for all they know.

Just beyond the children’s cemetery was a patch of metal carvings dashed in snow. A new one placed in the earth when a new boy went on trial. The trial had been a training mechanism for the young men and women, steadily dissolving into only men in an oddly patriarchal manner for their odd little society, to explore the rest of the world. Young men who were bent on finding more. Broken hearted by the friends that they knew were long gone the second they stepped aboard the ship. 

While the older people built and struggled, these men trained and struggled in their own way. A small fleet was ready. They forged into the world, leaving marks where they left. Beckoning for more to join them.

What had been 20,000 in this town people now dissolved to a population of 2,000. Many dead. Nearly 10,000 — all once the youth —were out there, somewhere. Tino hoped Peter was out there. Did he ever thing of his parents? Tino wondered, looking at the metallic face of the young boy, staring blankly out at the world, ball tight in hand. 

Peter was the last boy to leave for the trial. No one was young enough to go. A town of old people, an overflow retirement home. Tino dragged his eyes away from the statue, mistakenly landing on the other side, where the men were buried.

Where Berwald lay.

Old bones, Tino told himself, heart tearing in two.

For some time, in the end, Tino had sat at that grave side. His hand scraping the dirt listlessly. Hoping to call back the dead. He had been pulled away a few times, his hands sore and red and nearly frostbitten.

Funny, Tino never felt that pain in his hands. 

Now, about 6 years later, Tino fought every instinct to toss away the dirt and curl up besides his husband, shutting his eyes to sleep. Tired of being alone. Save, for he wasn’t alone. Ilmatar was home. And she would likely be hungry, he thought, glancing back towards his home. He made his way back, nodding at those who passed. 

Half-way back to his home, Tino paused.

Chickens?

Snowball fights?

Yellow sun?

He glanced at himself, down his body, trying to locate himself in time and space again. He shut his eyes. He was an old widow/widower. He lived in a small hut outside the village, because that’s where his husband broke himself building it. He raised one child and that child is gone, along with the rest of the children the town had raised. Now, Tino tried to piece together ancient tomes for fun. And he cared for shambling strangers that told viscous lies. He was still himself. He was still a widow of his past. 

He was still him, he was still he. 

As he approached his home, he saw Yao standing outside. A stroke of ink against white. Yao was looking around, spotted him, and rushed forwards.

“Tino—I, your fox—!” 

“Ilmatar?” Tino asked, his heart sinking. He dropped his belongings and rushed past Yao, who he noticed bent to pick up them up. Yao looked over his shoulder, hair caught in a gust, spilling down. 

“She’s in your bedroom. She won’t quite get up. Tino…?”

But Tino was already in his bedroom. 

His fox. His one last beloved. Tino crouched down by the fox, who had cuddled down next to his bed on a blanket that had been strewn off. She raised her head to him, her neck weak. Tino’s heart thundered.

She was alive.

Yao’s foot steps croaked the floorboards. He walked closer, shy of the doorway which was little more than an open wound in the wood of the home, bandaged with a loose curtain. Yao looked in, shy and hesitant and fearful at once. “I couldn’t find her after I shut my eyes for a moment. I was worried she was ill?”

Tino stopped, quelling his heart, beckoning for his hands to cease their trembling.

“She’s been ill for a while, it’s alright. She’s very old.” 

He wrapped the old fox in his hands and pulled her closer. Happy she was alive. Just for now, just for now. “I brought you meat, my old dear beloved. I brought you something to eat…” He whispered into her fur. She rubbed against him. Her energy from the past day faltering. “Comforting me until you can’t anymore, is that so?” Tino asked. “Come, my beloved.” He said, edging her to come eat with him and Yao.

The next few days passed by tremendously slowly and blindingly fast. Tino watched both Yao and Ilmatar. As Yao regained his composure that he had lost from his journey, helping Tino with his vegetable patch and mending what he could in the home, Ilmatar only grew worse. Her eyes which had already been unfocused, slid away more often than before. She was often sick and incontinent, her old legs weak before her. At times, Tino felt, he saw her rise and gallop and play. This became less and less frequent. As the days wore on, nearly a week, she settled more and more to that blanket, strewn on the floor. Tino had no heart to pick it up. She slept on it, day and night. When Tino could no longer keep his eyes opening watching her, petting her, he dozed off near her on a rug he had dragged close.

When he woke, startled, he could Yao at his side.

Yao, crouched, took a comb through Ilmatar’s fur, pulling gently at knots and humming to himself in an odd language. He sung in a low, sweet voice. His voice head an unexpected smoothness, rolling through notes. Unpracticed, comforting.

Tino raised his head, watching as Yao sat cross legged on the floor. “Hello old girl,” he said, feeding her morsels of food slowly. She licked them from his hands, pulling them between her teeth, chewing only to please Tino.

“What are you singing?”

Yao turned, smiling sadly at Tino. “Just a lullaby I was taught once,” He said.

“I didn’t expect you to sing to foxes. One like you who could punch aliens in the face.” Tino said. Yao grinned.

“I can be kind.”

“Yes, that you can.”

“Plus, I’ve heard you sing to her before.”

Tino pulled himself to a sit, placing a hand on Ilmatar’s side. Had she always felt so frail? He felt his cheeks blush. “I’m an old fool, Yao.” Tino said. “I miss what was lost, so I make do when I can.”

Yao nodded. “I do, too.”

. . . 

What must be done, must be done.

Tino and Yao dug a grave, pushing into the frost-hardened earth until their backs ached and their fingers were trapped in clenched fists. They had found Ilmatar hiding behind the house, beneath an unused water pump, curled with her nose under her tail, perfectly still.

Tino felt he would weep, but he did not. He did not weep when they set her down, when they poured the harsh earth back on top, when the last link to his recent past was severed.

He wept in his bed, in the shadow of night, his body hurting. He had repaired a leak in the roof with Yao, tilled a new patch of soil, planted a new patch of vegetables with seeds from town, sewn together his hood and Yao’s, worked at the water pump until he cried out in frustration, kicking and hurting his toe. His body felt broken. He rejected Yao telling him to sit still, to mourn, to let his body feel awash with sorrow.

Rejected and rejected until Yao finally sighed and picked Tino up bodily, dropping him on to his bed. Night had nearly fallen by then. Yao brought him food, the tended now the tender, and set Tino to bed.

Only then, wrapped in blankets, listening to a wind cry outside in mourning, did he weep too. Weep for all that was lost. Weep for the end.

_Cried the anguished lover’s what to be foretold _

_Hoarse and bitter and cold— _

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find this work on fanfiction.net. Updates will be posted on AO3 first.
> 
> It's been a long time, hasn't it? I've missed writing. Thank you everyone who has commented and given me kudos. I've read every comment and appreciated every kudo. I hope this story is exciting and as much fun as I had writing it.


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